Becoming Lauren
by CardinalPerch
Summary: In the mid 90s, Emily Prentiss was a brilliant, but aimless graduate student trying desperately to escape the orbit of her parents. One short meeting would change her life, and set her on course to become the agent who took down Ian Doyle before joining the BAU. (Rated T for mild language, violence)
1. The Meeting

_Hey all. This is my first story in a long time. I used to write about Prentiss (far and away my favorite) quite frequently then went on hiatus for awhile. Happy to be back. The last few stories I wrote were sort of sequels to Prentiss's time on the show (at least through Season 7). I thought it might be fun to do a prequel exploring just how Emily came to be involved in the CIA and, ultimately, the Ian Doyle investigation before joining the BAU._

 _I'm posting the first three chapters at one time because they originally started as one chapter that was just too unwieldy, so I cut it in thirds. After this I'll try to update on a weekly basis. Your feedback and critique is welcomed and appreciated. (Especially since I will probably be rusty!) Hope you enjoy!_

…

 _Georgetown University 1995_

After a moment of fumbling with a crumpled packet and cheap Bic lighter, she took a drag of her cigarette and immediately fell into a coughing fit. She wasn't sure if it was intake of the unseasonably sweltering April air, the staleness of the cigarette, or the fact that she hadn't smoked in three weeks, but the smoke hadn't provided the fleeting moment of stress relief she'd hoped for.

"You know that shit'll kill you, right?" inquired Frank, her research partner. Emily hadn't heard him sneak up behind her, light brown eyes narrowed behind his oversized glasses.

"I'm counting on it," she quipped. "Get me out of finishing these stupid revisions."

"Fat chance," Frank replied. "I'd still make you help me if you were dead. I'm not doing these by myself. Besides, I thought you'd quit."

"I think that was officially my last drag," she answered, putting the cigarette out in the big outdoor ashtray next to the door. From the looks of it, nobody had cleaned it since the spring semester ended.

"Good, but I didn't come to lecture you. There are a couple of guys looking for you up in the office."

"What? Who?"

"I don't know, definitely government dudes."

"State?" she inquired.

"I guess," Frank answered, taking a swig from his Coke bottle. "The one guy seemed like a real asshole, so I didn't really stick around to ask."

"Great," Emily muttered, rolling her dark eyes. "Better go get this over with."

"Good luck," Frank answered sympathetically. After years of friendship going back to their undergraduate years at Yale, he was well aware of how much Emily hated anything to do with her mother.

Emily retreated into the building behind them, silently thankful that the school had finally installed air conditioners in the psychology building. The sticky sweat on her t-shirt cooled pleasantly as she made her way up the stairs to the cramped second-floor office she and Frank shared with a few other graduate students. There, amongst the scattered papers, errant pens, and dog-eared citation manuals were the two "government dudes" in question. One, a thrity-fiveish man with thick brown hair was leaning against Emily's battered desk and appeared to be reading through her notes. The second man was older. Emily pegged him as late forties. He had graying, slightly receding hair that was clipped into a neat buzz cut and fierce blue eyes. Emily guessed that this was the asshole, and it was he who spoke in a clipped, demanding tone:

"Miss Prentiss," he said, extending his hand. Emily was nearly crushed by his vice grip. "I'm Jack Peterson. This is Michael Foley."

"Hello," the brown-haired man said without looking up from Emily's notes.

"Hi," Emily said impatiently. She didn't particularly appreciate the fact that a totally stranger was currently flipping through her work. "Look, let's just get this over with. My mother is the same as she's ever been. She's self-promoting, self-centered, and a meddling pain in my ass. But she's not a security threat and I haven't noticed any changes in her. Can I go now?"

To Emily's surprise, Peterson cracked a wry smile, suggesting that he might be slightly good-natured under his tough exterior.

"You think were from State?" he asked, laughing slightly. "Here to do your mother's regular background check."

"I take it you're not, then?" she answered.

"No, but, uh, we'll be sure to pass along the message," Peterson answered. "We're with the Defense Department. Actually, I'm going to be blunt with you, we're with the Central Intelligence Agency."

A long moment of silence passed.

"CIA," Emily finally managed, incredulously.

"Indeed," Peterson answered. Out of the corner or her eye, Emily noticed that Foley had stopped reading her notes and started watching her intently.

"So…uh, how can I help you?" Emily asked.

"We've been reading your work," Foley interjected. '"The Effect of Language Barriers on the Accuracy of Cross-Linguistic Psychological Analysis.' Franklin Mueller and Emily Prentiss. Quite impressive."

"You read our paper?" Emily inquired, mildly surprised. "How? It's not even ready for publication yet."

"Your advisor, Dr. Holt, is an old friend. He sent it to me. He thought we might find it…promising. And 'publication ready' is a matter of the style. I'm more interested in the content. There are some keen observations on this. Some observations we haven't considered before."

"Thanks, but what exactly does this have to do with the CIA?" Emily pressed.

"Are you familiar with the work of David Rossi and Jason Gideon?" Peterson asked.

"Somewhat. FBI guys, right? Use psychological profiles to narrow down criminals and predict behavior. What about it?"

"We utilize similar techniques at the CIA. Though we don't have the luxury of writing nice books about it," Peterson said somewhat bitterly. "We use profiling to identify and track terrorists, spies, drug cartels, you name it. But there's a problem. As you might imagine, most of the people we're tracking don't speak English, at least as a first language. We've found that this language barrier leads to inaccuracies in our profile. Even if some of our profiling agents speak the subject's language, there seems to be a problem generating profiles that a primarily English-speaking intelligence agency can deal with. Your paper offers some interesting approaches that might help solve our problem."

"So you want a copy of our paper?"

"No," Peterson clarified. "We want you."

"Me?"

"Indeed."

"Why?"

"I've just told you why. We think your aptitude is impressive and your insights valuable. And you speak six languages. I need hardly point out what an asset that would be in our line of work."

"Five, really. My Russian is crap," Emily muttered. "How the hell do you know this anyway?" she demanded.

"We do our research," Peterson said matter-of-factly.

Emily didn't particularly appreciate his answer. She fiercely valued her privacy and was none too pleased that, after dodging her meddling parents with relative success for her entire life, she was suddenly confronted with a pair of complete strangers who seemed to know far too much. Nonetheless, she couldn't deny she was starting to feel slightly intrigued as well. Peterson and Foley seemed to notice. They were scrutinizing her carefully. Emily put on her best poker face. She still had a few questions answered before things went any further.

"Why just me?" she demanded. "Why not Frank? He did as much work on this as I did. He speaks four languages."

"It's not just a matter of aptitude," Peterson said. "There are concerns of temperament. Mr. Mueller doesn't seem to seem to be cut out for it."

Emily didn't appreciate this dig at Frank. Foley quickly intervened.

"What Jack means is that your friend Frank's interests lie elsewhere. We understand he's set to begin studying pediatric psychiatry at Duke Medical? It's a noble field, but it doesn't exactly scream CIA. He's set himself a very clear post-graduation trajectory in the opposite direction. You, on the other hand..."

"I have plans after my Master's," Emily interrupted.

"Yes, Berkley," Peterson said wisely. "Arguably the top psychology PhD program in the country. Very impressive. Especially considering you applied well beyond the deadline." The implication in his tone was unmistakable, and Emily didn't have a good answer.

"Your heart isn't in it," Peterson pressed. "You're very intelligent, Ms. Prentiss, but you're no academic. You've grown up around the globe and you aren't about to settle in an office. You want something more challenging, more adventurous. But you haven't found the right outlet. I'm offering you that."

"So, you know I'm the slightly aimless daughter of a diplomat who happens to be good at psychology and a few languages, and from that you've decided that what I really want to do is run off and joint the CIA?" Emily replied dryly. "That's quite a leap."

"But it's not wrong, is it?" Peterson pressed.

She decided not to answer directly.

"What exactly are you offering?"

"I want you to join us as a full agent and specialize in profiling," he answered in a matter-of-fact tone. "You build on the work you've done here to develop an approach to analyzing foreign enemies of the United States, maybe even teach other agents, and you help us stop threats. Sometimes that will mean assisting in interrogations, sometimes that will mean narrowing down a list of potential suspects, sometimes that will mean helping us determine where a particular person will strike next and stopping them. But I promise you, it will never mean boredom."

"Stopping enemies of the United States?" Emily asked. "Being a good government servant like my mother?"

"Your mother's job is about optics and politics. About taking credit." Foley insisted. "We aren't interested in that. If we do our job right, nobody knows about it, much less takes credit. We worry about results. And in our business, Ms. Prentiss, results means a lot more than just serving some government interest. It means saving lives, American or not."

"Sure there are some politics," Peterson admitted. "But we have a few heads at the top to deal with that shit. You just do your job. That's it."

Emily considered everything for a moment. In a way, it _was_ everything she wanted. To do challenging work and to do work that might make a real difference. And to prove she could do it without the manipulative and attention-seeking behavior that characterized her mother. Emily knew it wouldn't be as simple as Peterson and Foley were making it sound. She didn't quite trust them. This was the CIA, after all. There were bound to be strings attached. Probably a lot. Still, this was too tempting to pass up. To not at least find out what the strings were and see if she could tolerate them.

"I'm listening," Emily allowed. "What's the catch?"

"The catch, is that you will have to give everything for this job, and it's a job I cannot guarantee you until you've proved yourself a hundred times over. There will be physical training, psychological tests, stress tests. If you make it through the screening, in the unlikely event that you find much time for a personal life, you must be willing to compromise that. You may have to lie to your family, your friends, your spouse. You may be required to drop everything at a moment's notice and travel to places that are remote, dangerous, even deadly. And you will have to do all this without hesitation. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"And are you still interested?"

"I am."

"Good," Peterson said, studying Emily closely. "Because I don't know quite what it is about you, but I think you have what it takes. I really do."

"Now what?" Emily asked.

"Now nothing," Foley said. "You will rejoin Mr. Mueller. You will tell him that we were from the State Department here to conduct your mother's annual background check and it took a long time because Mr. Peterson had to take a phone call. You will publish your paper and receive your Master's degree. You will proceed as if nothing happened, and we will be in touch."

It wasn't a request. Emily wasn't even in the CIA yet. Wasn't even sure she ever would be, but she was receiving her first orders.

"Alright," she agreed, with only the slightest bit of reluctance that the successfully repressed.

"Good. You'll be hearing from us," Foley said. He extended his hand again and Emily returned the gesture. She did the same with Peterson and the two men left the room, but not before Peterson threw in one last remark that fed Emily's distinct impression he could read her mind.

"I know we gave you a lot to think about, Ms. Prentiss, but try and deal with it some other way besides smoking. There will be a health screening fairly early on."

A minute after the stone-faced agents departed, Emily went back outside to find Frank.

"Jesus, that took forever," her partner groaned. "What the hell did they want?"

Emily looked at her friend since their freshman year at Yale, the nicest guy she knew, and with an ease that somewhat scared her, she lied.

"Nothing, just the stupid background check for my mom. Took forever because the asshole just had to take a phone call. Couldn't ignore his stupid pager for just a few minutes."

"Well, at least you're done with it," Frank remarked. "I suppose we better go back in get to work."

As Emily followed Frank back inside, she grabbed the crumpled package of cigarettes from her pocket and tossed it in the trash.


	2. The Tests

_Washington, D.C., 1996_

The last year had been a whirlwind. Jack Peterson had indeed been in touch. He instructed Emily to stay on course with her studies, even to keep her plans to start at Berkley in the fall. Emily was a bit mystified by this, but she didn't bother to ask questions she knew weren't going to be entertained. In some strange way she gained satisfaction in concealing just how curious she was. Instead, she plowed on with finishing her studies at Georgetown. Emily and Frank finally published their paper, an 86-page work that appeared in _Psychological Review_. They graduated with their master's degrees a few weeks later.

Emily's parents made the trip from Europe to attend the commencement. It was one of the increasingly rare occasions when Richard and Elizabeth Prentiss were both together with their daughter. Richard's career in finance and Elizabeth's diplomatic career meant that the couple often spent months apart. When Emily was young, they decided it would be best for her safety and education if she lived in the embassies with her mother and spent breaks with Richard on his travels.

Emily had long been certain they had also a tacit agreement that affairs would be tolerated as long as they were kept discreet. For the most part, they were models of discretion. They always shared a bedroom when they were together and Richard rarely missed a holiday. Both always wore their wedding rings when they were in public or with each other, only occasionally forgetting to slip them back on when Emily was around. While they had long stopped loving each other – if they ever were in love at all – they did seem to like one another, each respecting the other's intelligence and ambition. Emily only needed one hand to count the number of time's she'd ever heard them argue. As far as sham marriages went, the Prentisses were a perfect match.

Their weeklong visit had actually gone far better than Emily expected. Though not terribly affectionate, Richard adored his daughter, who inherited both his good humor and prominent nose, if not his steely blue eyes and formerly blonde (now thoroughly gray) hair. Emily's near-equal affection was tempered by a slight resentment over his long absences and his complicity in ensuring that her upbringing never resembled anything close to normal, privileged though it was. She still relished every chance she had to spend time with him, and this visit was no exception. Even Emily's cold relationship with her mother thawed some. While mother and daughter were distant, Elizabeth had always been keenly interested in Emily's accomplishments. Graduating Georgetown with honors and co-authoring a published article had landed Emily decidedly on her mother's good side, at least for the moment. They only thing Elizabeth found to complain about was Emily's haircut.

"Oh, Emily, you look like a boy," her mother fretted on their first night at dinner. "And it'll look even more boyish when you wear your regalia cap over it." Emily didn't put up too much of an argument. She secretly agreed that her recently shorn hair looked atrocious, and had been trying to will her black locks to grow back. Otherwise, the conversation that passed between Emily and her mother was perfectly pleasant, albeit largely superficial.

Neither one of her parents had the slightest notion that Emily's plans no longer involved Berkley. Along with a strong physical resemblance, Emily shared her mother's talents for compartmentalizing and putting on an inscrutable poker face.

Shortly after her parents returned to Europe, Emily was contacted again by Jack Peterson, who finally explained why he had insisted that she continue her studies as normal. As Emily was well aware, the article she'd written with Frank had received quite a bit of interest and positive reception. This gave Peterson the plausible deniability needed to get Emily into the CIA evaluation process without drawing any attention. He had arranged for the creation of a fictional joint psychology fellowship position with the Department of Defense and National Institute of Health. Under the guise of being surprised and impressed with their work, the agencies would offer both Frank and Emily the opportunity to defer their respective doctoral studies to take the one-year fellowship. Frank, anxious to start his pediatric studies, would decline. Emily would accept and use the fellowship as a cover to undergo evaluation and training. If she passed the evaluation process and wished to join the Agency, she would be offered a fictional full-time consulting position with the Department of Defense, which would serve as her permanent cover position. If she failed evaluations or chose not to join, she could continue on to Berkley at the end of the year.

Emily had to admit, she was impressed with how accurately Peterson had predicted the way things would play out. Nobody seemed to question the sudden "fellowship" offer or Emily's acceptance of it. Frank, as Peterson correctly guessed, was flattered but also quickly turned the opportunity down. Emily's parents thought the fellowship was a good idea. Not that Emily particularly cared, but it did make things easier.

"It's about time you got some real world experience, it will do you good," Elizabeth had told her daughter, somewhat haughtily. Emily could have strangled her over the phone.

On a Friday evening, after everything was settled and Emily was set to begin, Peterson and Foley took her out to dinner, where she finally got to lean a little bit about the men who had so suddenly pulled her life off course.

"We were both agents in psychological operations with the Agency, now we're basically glorified talent scouts," Foley explained. "Instead of finding the next great Yankee's pitcher, we find the next great CIA PsyOps agents."

They were actually both quite amiable guys once you got to know them. They had to come off as cryptic hardasses at first, to make that they only attracted people who were truly interested in the opportunity. After that, they both took a keen and supportive interest in their recruit. They apparently had the highest rate of success at the Agency with respect to the number of recruits who passed the evaluation stage.

"24%?!" Emily nearly choked over her glass of Malbec.

"You were expecting something higher? We're the only recruiting team with a rate over 15%," Peterson said. "It's the CIA, not Burger King."

"If it makes you feel any better," Foley interjected, "every single one of the recruit the two of us have brought in have had very, very successful careers. Either in the Agency or elsewhere."

"And I don't think it's even going to be an issue for you, kid," Peterson said, his blue eyes piercing Emily's brown. His use of the term "kid" grated Emily's nerves to no end, but she knew it was meant to be endearing, so she tolerated it. Nice Jack was way better than asshole Jack.

"I can tell there's something about you, you have what it takes," he continued. "But if you need anything, anything at all, you know where to reach us."

"Just be sure to rest up this weekend," Foley added. "Starting Monday, things are going to get intense."

…

Intense was an understatement.

The first day was tolerable enough. An IQ test in the morning. A lie detector in the afternoon. Then psychological testing and training started. The timing was sensible – it would be pointless for the agency to spend money on other training and tests if the recruit turned out to be psychologically unfit. But it was months of hell. Mock interrogations, stress test, sleep deprivation. By the end, Emily felt like she was constantly on the verge of a violent outburst. But apparently she had actually done very well.

After the psych examiners gave the go-ahead, skills training and testing began. A few of the training agents actually seemed mildly alarmed at how quickly Emily was able to master the deception skills necessary to fool a polygraph test and a seasoned interrogator. She was less adept at firearms training, but still picked that up fairly quickly. Richard Prentiss had taken Emily shotgun shooting a few times when she was a teenager. A few of the things he taught her translated well to learning how to handle smaller firearms. She knew to squeeze the trigger rather than pull, and the kickback was much easier to handle. She wasn't a sharpshooter, but she proved herself fairly competent and qualified easily at the end of her training.

She flew through linguistics. The CIA expected recruits to qualify as fluent in at least one foreign language. Emily qualified in Arabic, French, Spanish, and Italian. She didn't bother taking the Russian exams. She didn't have the same natural aptitude for basic first aid and medical, but proved a fast enough learner.

Aside from the hell of the psychological testing, the worst part for Emily was the physical exams and training. Emily had never been in bad shape, but she'd never really been in great shape either. For the first time in her life, she spent time in a gym. Despite making an enormous amount of progress and getting in better shape than she'd ever believed possible, Emily still had some doubt about making it through the physical exam. Ultimately, she made it through the final ten mile run on pure stubbornness, only later realizing that she had sprained her knee partway through.

Emily was now halfway through a two-week break awaiting one final test to see if she would be accepted into the Agency. She hadn't been told anything about the nature of this last test, and Peterson had advised Emily not to overthink it and try and enjoy her break. She found that much easier than expected. She slept until noon her first day off and read four books over the next five days. Now that the soreness from physical training had worn off, she'd even taken advantage of the crisp, clear morning to pursue her new hobby of running the Mall settling in at a café to pursue her favorite old hobby – dog-eared copy of Vonnegut's Mother Night. She opened her book and sprawled out lazily in her chair ("Emily, for God's sake, sit like a lady," she could hear her mother saying in the back of her mind.) She stayed out longer than intended, and by the time she'd finished grocery shopping and headed home, darkness began to fall.

It was night when Emily reached the Arlington apartment she began renting shortly after graduation. She fumbled to get her key into the old-fashioned lock while balancing the two brown paper grocery sack she had filled past the brim. She only heard the man approach behind her about half a second before everything went black.


	3. Insanity

When Emily finally came to, her head was pounding. She blinked rapidly, trying to adjust her eyesight to the darkness. She quickly realized it was in vain. Something had been placed over her eyes to keep her from seeing. She'd have to assess her situation by feel or by sound. Doing her best to ignore the throbbing headache, she tried to do a quick check of her body and her surroundings. Other than her head, nothing hurt. There was a small trickle of wet blood on her scalp where she'd been struck, but she couldn't feel any blood in her nose or ears, so she didn't think she was seriously injured. Her hands were bound behind her. She could feel a cold steel clamped tightly on her wrists. Cuffs.

"Dammit," she thought silently. Tape or rope would have given her a much better chance.

The floor was moving. Slowly, with an occasional jarring lurch. She was in a vehicle. Back of a utility van, judging from the rough, hard plastic up against her face and the fact that she was able to fully stretch out her 5'9" frame. Wherever they were, they were on a back road with a fair amount of potholes. She knew they still had to be within the general D.C. area, since she hadn't been knocked out long enough for the blood on her scalp to dry.

Listening closely, she could hear breathing coming from a few feet away. Heavier, most likely male. When he shifted his position a little bit, she could hear the telltale metal clicking of a gun. Definitely a sign that he was a captor rather than a fellow captive. So there were at least two of them: this guy and the driver.

If Emily's captor noticed she was awake, he said nothing. Emily chose not to say anything just yet. She wanted more time to collect her thoughts. First and foremost, she was trying to narrow down exactly what the hell was going on. Two scenarios struck her as possible. First was the possibility she had always been warned against ever since she was old enough to understand. Both her parents and the various embassy security services constantly reminded her of the dangers of being a diplomat's child. She heard the stories of kids like her who were kidnapped and held ransom either for money or political demands. Emily knew it was possible that she was still a target even as an adult, but the scenario seemed unlikely. After spending years at riskier posts in the Middle East and the USSR, Elizabeth had recently secured a cushy appointment in Luxembourg, hardly a location that would make her a prime target for blackmail.

Still, Emily hoped this had something to do with her mother. In that case, her captors would need her alive. The second scenario was much more troubling – she might be in the hands of a team of serial rapist murderers. If that were the case, she wasn't going to have a lot of time. She'd fight like hell, but she was probably screwed.

"I know you're awake," the gruff voice of her captor interrupted her thoughts.

"Well, gold star for you," Emily grunted. She resisted the temptation to say anything else. She knew the man's next words might give her some snippet of information she could use.

He snorted derisively, but didn't immediately say anything. If he thought she was going to say anything further, he was dead wrong. She willed herself to outwait him. Several moments passed in an awkward agonizing silence. Several times Emily had to suppress a grunt when a few pothole sent her head bashing up against the floor, sending fresh shots of pain through her temples.

"Don't you want to know where you're going?" the man finally asked. Emily was pleased to hear the slight tinge of impatience in his voice that he couldn't quite mask. He clearly hadn't expected her to remain so quiet, so still.

"There's nothing stopping you from telling me."

"No chance," he said derisively.

This was actually crucial information. Emily didn't specialize in sex crimes or serial killers, but she knew enough about them to know that they typically didn't care if their victims knew where they were going. In fact, they often bragged about what they were going to do to them. There was no point in concealing information from a person they intended to kill very shortly. In fact, most got off on psychologically torturing helpless captives with a narrative of what was about to happen. This man's short answers and refusal to disclose much information meant that she was going to be kept alive, at least for now.

Emily decided to take advantage of this information to make her situation a little more tolerable. With some effort, owing to her inability to use her arms, she lifted herself into a sitting position, sparing her face anymore painful collisions with the floor.

"Don't get too comfortable, Agent Prentiss," the man warned. "We won't be much longer."

 _Agent_ Prentiss? Emily hadn't seriously considered that this might have something to do with her job. Peterson and all of the others at the CIA had been very careful to conceal Emily's training and limit her exposure. Besides, Emily thought she could hardly be a more useless target for somebody trying to get at the Agency. Technically, wasn't even _in_ it. Determined not to give her captor the slightest indication that his pronouncement had any affect on her, Emily quickly played dumb.

"Only half right, no gold star this time," she said defiantly. "You've grabbed a Prentiss, but unless you want to buy some real estate from my cousin, you aren't going to find any agents in our family."

"Gonna play all smartass, eh? We'll see about that."

Emily noticed the van no longer seemed to be on a paved road. The ride had become much more jarring and she was thankful she was now sitting up. Suddenly, they came to a halt. Emily heard the driver exit and walk around to the back doors. The back doors opened, and an older deeper voice sounded. Emily detected a faint accent. Slavic of some sort, weakened by years of living in the States.

"We're here, let's go."

Emily felt a rough hand grab her shoulder and pull her out of the van. She staggered a bit to find her footing as a second pair of hands seized her other shoulder. She felt the barrel of a gun poked roughly into the right side of her rib cage.

"I'm guessing you don't need me to tell you what this is?" the driver asked menacingly.

"Nope," Emily retorted. 

"Good, walk."

Emily did as instructed. Even though she was now certain there were only two of them, she had no intention of trying to make a run for it just now. She could tell from the crunching of the twigs and dead, dry leaves beneath her feet that she was in a wooded area. Even in the unlikely event she managed to squirm away from two strong, armed men without the use of her hands, she was liable to run headfirst into a tree in her blindfolded state.

It turned out there wasn't far to walk anyway. Emily heard a door open in front of her. She had a moment to recognize that she was now walking on concrete before she was roughly thrust into a cold, metal chair that pushed rigidly against her back.

"We're going to make a few adjustments here. Try anything and you're dead." Emily recognized the voice as belonging to the first captor who was with her in the back of the van. To underscore the point, the gun was jammed even harder against her ribs. Emily could feel the metal edge of the barrel start to dig through the cotton of her t-shirt. Her left wrist was briefly uncuffed before her arms were forced around the back of the chair and re-chained. Emily swore silently as the man forced the left cuff a notch tighter.

After securing her to the chair, one of the men finally removed the blindfold. Emily opened her eyes then immediately forced them shut. There was a blinding white light pointing directly in her face. The pain in her head immediately doubled with a vengeance. Emily felt like she might throw up. She tried to remember some of the calming techniques from her psyche training. Slowly, she began counting in her head.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

Then in French. Un. Deux. Trois. Quatre. Cinq. Six. Sept. Huit. Neuf. Dix.

She opened her eyes to a narrow squint, and found she could tolerate it as long as she looked down at the floor. The concrete surface was covered in dust. Emily detected a faint, damp scent of must. She guessed they were in a utility shed somewhere, probably one that hadn't been used in some time.

"It's time to speak up, Agent Prentiss," the voice of the first captor growled. Emily still couldn't see either man's face, as they were both standing behind the bright light. "The more you give us, the better your chances of living. We can start with the basics. Co-worker names, computer access codes. We're all ears."

"I told you," she said defiantly. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I seriously doubt that," the driver scoffed. "You're young, so you can't have been at the CIA long, but even you have to know some things. You can serve as a valuable first link in our chain, so give us what you have, we're all ears."

Emily laughed.

"Seriously, the CIA? You're joking."

"You think we haven't been watching you, following you?" the driver retorted. "We're not fools, Agent Prentiss. We've seen you go into the Defense Department every day? You think we don't know why you're there?"

"Apparently now, because I'm just a glorified intern," Emily answered, again adding a defiant laughter. Maybe, just maybe if she could get under this guy's skin, she could find an out. At the very least, she was going to give him a hard time of it. "I look over behavior health policies for dealing with vet's PTSD. If that's information you're interested in, there are some great pamphlets at the VA."

"You think that's funny?"

"I think you're barking up the wrong tree."

"You _will_ talk," the driver said menacingly. He stepped forward out of the light. Emily could see him properly now. He was dressed in black pants and sweatshirt. He had a brown buzz cut and a full beard with the faintest traces of gray. He now jabbed his gun straight between Emily's eyes. "Or I _will_ make you, and it _will_ hurt."

"No need," sounded a third, unfamiliar voice with a thick Baltimore accent as the door through which Emily had entered was swung open again. Another armed man entered room, shoving someone ahead of him at gunpoint. Emily's fellow captive was forced down into the seat next to her. She was able to see him out of the side of her eyes and had to stifle a gasp. It was Jack Peterson. Face bruised. Nose bloody.

"This asshole oughta know twice what she'll be able to tell us. She gets one more chance to talk, and if she doesn't, waste her and torture him."

"Screw you!" Peterson yelled. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Sure you don't," the bearded driver said, before turning his attention back to Emily. "You heard him, sweetheart," he said, gun still firmly pressed against Emily's head. "You have about ten seconds to save your skin."

"I still don't know what you're talking about," Emily insisted, a slight edge in her voice despite her best efforts. "But you don't need to torture this man, I don't know him."

"Five seconds."

"I told you, I'm an intern."

"Four."

It was too late. She was screwed.

"Three."

She heard the safety on the gun release.

"Two."

She closed her eyes and took a sharp intake of steadying breath. This was it. A shed. In the middle of nowhere. Before she'd even gotten a proper start to the job.

"One."

She heard the click of an empty chamber. Followed by the sound of applause. The intense light shining in Emily's face went out and the softer overhead light came on. Emily looked over to her left, and Jack Peterson was grinning through caked blood.

"You did good kid, really good."

"Wha….what?" Emily rubbed a shaking hand over her eyes as she was released from the cuffs. Gradually, she began to process and realization set in."

"The test…" she stammered. "This was the last test?"

"And you passed with flying colors," Jack said proudly.

"Just breathe easy, Emily," the man now crouching next to her instructed. Emily recognized his voice as belonging to the Baltimore man who brought Jack in.

"Breathe easy? Who the hell are you? You just told this guy to waste me!" she said, jamming her finger in the direction of the bearded driver.

"Emily, this is Agent Mike Fowler, he's a training staff medic," Peterson said, pointing at the Baltimore man. "Your driver is Agent Davor Ivich, former covert agent and current trainer extraordinaire. Your co-passenger in the van is Agent Colin Adams, combat trainer." A middle aged man with a ruddy complexion waived.

"I'm 'fraid I was the one to give you that bump on your head. It was designed to knock you out without any lasting damage. But I owe you a couple bags of groceries."

Emily just stared at him blankly. She still couldn't believe that the men who seemed prepared to blow her brains out a minute ago were now smiling and acting like it was another pleasant day at the office.

"It's a lot to process, I know" Agent Fowler said, calmly. "I've got a team of medics outside. We'll take care of your head and get you calmed down some. Okay? Can you walk with me?"

"Uh, yeah, yeah," Emily managed. She was a bit unsteady on her feet at first, but with Fowler's help she got her bearings and was able to walk.

"Once we get you fixed up, we'll take you home," Fowler said. "We can have somebody stay with you tonight if you want. I know it's a lot to process. But you really did do great. Jack said you would."

"Good for me," Emily said sarcastically. She was transitioning from shocked to pissed off. CIA or not, assault and abduction was not here idea of good employee-employer relations. But the thing that scared her the most was that, deep down, she'd gotten a little thrill out of it. She must be insane.

"They'll give you the rest of your week off to recoup and think about things, and then you'll start in Langley next Monday," Fowler continued. "Assuming you still want the gig."

Emily knew she wasn't going to have to think much about it. She wanted this job. Badly. Even after tonight. In fact, especially after tonight. There were only a few people in the country who could do this job, and she was now one of them. She felt valuable in a way she'd never felt before. That was nothing if not exciting.

"I do," Emily said. "I do want it. I must be crazy."

Fowler shrugged and gave a knowing smile.

"Welcome to the CIA."


	4. Colombia

_Author's Note: Wow, really appreciate the feedback I've gotten so far. It's good to be back!_

 _So, the good news is I'm able to update this quicker than I expected. The "bad" news is that this chapter is a bit short. I planned on having it as the first part of a larger chapter, but I think it works better on its own. I will try to add Chapter 5 by the weekend. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy!_

…

 _Colombia, September 2001_

Emily and her partner, Tom Kohler, chugged greedily from their condensation-soaked water bottles. Emily actually slightly envied the man they watched on the other side of the two-way mirror. Despite being cuffed the table in front of him and manacled to his chair, Carlos Rodrigo Sanchez was soundly asleep. Emily could even make out some spit falling out of his mouth onto the table. She almost wished the interrogation wasn't over. She would have taken great pleasure in letting a murderous cartel tough guy know that she'd seen him drool. She had taken pleasure enough in finally seeing him break after 18 hours. Assuming he did actually break.

"How long has Gomez been gone?" Emily asked Tom. She'd left her watch by her bedside morning, and the interrogation room was intentionally free of clocks.

"It's nearly three in the morning, so two hours," he said, glancing at his watch and scratching the scraggly mess of a beard he'd sprouted since they arrived in the country two months earlier, on assignment to accompany a DEA squad. "He'd better get his ass back, I'm dying in here."

That was one of the many downfalls of working the Colombia assignment. Most of the rudimentary interrogation rooms the DEA had set up for them lacked air conditioning to counter the suffocating humidity. This had the helpful effect of making the interrogation subjects extremely uncomfortable, but it hardly left the interrogators better off. Their only reprieve was the occasional visit to the break room to stand in front of the two box fans that were sputtering valiantly but almost uselessly against the heat. Tom's white t-shirt was so thoroughly soaked with sweat it was almost transparent. Emily had smartly worn black, but she still didn't smell any better than Tom, which was saying something.

"I just hope we actually _did_ get Sanchez to give us the right location," Emily said. "Because if that bastard lied and is in there sleeping now while we have to stay awake, I might actually kill him."

"We got him, Em," Tom said confidently. "It's just up to Gomez and his guys to do their part now. Though I wish they'd let us come along and help."

"Can you really blame the DEA guys for not bringing CIA on the headline-catching raids? If I were them _I'd_ still be pissed about Noriega" she said, wiping yet another round of sweat from her face, which had tanned considerably since she started working in South America. "Besides, I can live with skipping the guns blazing part."

"You held your own with our last group of DEA boys in Mexico last year. Got Thompson and Rodriguez out of that spot they got into. They'd be dead without you."

"I do what I have to," Emily said. "Doesn't mean I always like like it." In fact, Emily hated talking about Mexico. For the first time, she'd taken a life. Two actually. The fact that the cartel members she gunned down would have gladly eviscerated her and the DEA agents if she had missed did help assuage her guilt a little, but she still felt like crap. Emily resolved to quit if she ever killed and found herself indifferent, or worse, enjoying it.

"Fair enough," Tom observed.

Finally, Steven Gomez, the DEA squad leader, returned with good news.

"Your boy was telling the truth," Gomez said happily. "That was _definitely_ the stash house for this district."

"Your guys all okay?" Emily asked.

"Torres got grazed in the face, but it's superficial, he'll be fine. And he'll probably tell his girlfriend he survived a machete attack or some bullshit. Everybody else is unscathed."

"And the other guys?"

"Ten killed, six captured. 12,000 pounds recovered."

"Hah, I told you it would be over 10,000 pounds," Emily told Tom. "You owe me five bucks."

Tom scoffed and pulled out a crumpled purple note.

"Dollars, Kohler, not pesos."

"20,000 pesos is like six dollars Emily," Tom argued.

"Greenbacks or it doesn't count."

"Fine, but you're going to have to wait until we get back up to the dorms. All of my American cash is up there."

"You guys go ahead, I'll take care of getting this joker transferred into holding," Gomez said, nodding toward the still-sleeping Sanchez.

Emily and Tom didn't need telling twice.

…

Emily quickly showered and settled into her bed. A pile of filthy change sat on the rickety nightstand of the spartan room she'd called home since arriving. Tom had snuck in while she was showering and paid off his debt in the most disgusting quarters, nickels, dimes, and pennies he could muster. Annoying as it was, Emily had to admit it was also pretty funny. This was one of her favorite things about working with Tom. His humor made long nights and grueling assignments much more bearable.

"Touché, Kohler," she muttered softly. "Touché." She'd have to figure out a way to get back at him. For now she needed sleep. She was so tired that the stiff, coarse sheets felt as welcoming as the finest silk. In less than a minute, she'd fallen into a deep, contented sleep.

…

A violent shaking ripped her from her slumber.

"Emily. Emily! Wake up!"

Tom's face was inches away from hers. The foul stench of stale sweat filled her nostrils.

"Jesus, Kohler," she said groggily. "Did you even shower before you fell asleep?"

"Just shut up and come with me," he cut her off.

This got Emily's attention. In their four years of working together, he'd never once talked down to her. It was only then that she noticed an unfamiliar looks in his hazel eyes. One of confusion, shock, fear.

"Tom," she asked cautiously, "What's going on?"

"I…I can't just explain it. Come on."

Emily followed Tom down the hall to the communal kitchen they shared the DEA agents. Gomez and several of the other agents were also already awake. Their somber faces glued to the old box television in the corner of the room.

"Jesus, Tom, is that…"

"Twin Towers. Both of 'em," Tom confirmed, still looking stone-faced at the news broadcast. "Pentagon too."

"The _Pentagon_? Jesus."

"I know," Tom said. Emily knew he was thinking the same thing she was. The Agency had hundreds of agents in the Pentagon on any given day. People they knew might be that burning wreck of concrete and steel. Emily and Tom were there fairly often when they were posted in Washington between assignments abroad. A few months earlier it might have been them.

"Who did this?" Emily asked.

"Early speculation is Al-Qaeda."

"Bin Laden?"

"That's what the news was reporting earlier," Tom said. "I haven't heard from anybody in Langley yet. I imagine we won't for awhile."

"He's been on our radar since Kenya in '98," Emily observed with a soft exasperation. "How could the Agency miss _this_?"

"I don't know."

The next agonizing hour passed in stunned, helpless silence. After the second tower collapsed, they heard a crash of breaking glass behind them. Gomez had thrown a coffee mug into the wall.

"Somebody better get these bastards!" he roared.

"At least one of us will," Tom observed. It took Emily a minute to register that he was looking at her. "They're going to want all hands on deck after this. You speak Arabic. They'll have you in the Middle East by the end of the month."

…

He was only off by a couple of weeks. Emily was recalled to Washington four days later for a whirlwind of briefings. By mid-October, she had her new marching orders and was on a plane to Afghanistan.


	5. Afghanistan

_Author's Note: Hey all. I know the last chapter was short, so here's a nice long one. And I swear these aren't all random disconnected vignettes. I'm slowly but surely working Emily's to Doyle. I have a busy week coming up, so probably no more updates until next weekend. In the meantime, hope you enjoy!_

…

 _Afghanistan, December 2002_

Dusk was settling in over the hills. Emily pulled her caramel and black shemagh scarf tightly around her face, trying to protect it from the onslaught of corse sand whipping through the chilling wind. At one time she would have traded the curtains of humidity in Colombia for just about any climate in the world, but the Afghan desert was proving even less endearing. But while the climate was different, Emily often felt the same sense of futility about her role on the frontline against terror that she'd felt while on the frontline against the drug trade. After over a year in Afghanistan, she saw no finish line in sight. She'd traded one endless war for another.

Emily quickly made to suppress these creeping feelings of doubt. They weren't going to help her get the job done. Besides, Emily reminded herself, she could say the same thing about practically every bad thing in the world. Sure, there would always be another terrorist, another drug cartel. But there would also always be another bank robber, another rapist, another murderer. Somebody still had to try and stop it.

"Agent Prentiss! They're ready for you." Major Evans, the head of the 82nd Airborne Division battalion Emily had been sent to assist, had to yell to be heard over the wind.

Emily entered the rudimentary shed that had been hastily constructed as battalion headquarters, removing the safety glasses from her eyes and doing her best to brush the sand from her clothes. She slipped her scarf down off her face and over her head.

"You know it's not necessary to cover your head in front of these guys, right?" Evans asked. "None of us give a shit if you offend them."

"I'm not worried about their feelings," Emily explained. "It's not about their feelings, it's about getting a useful profile."

"I don't follow," Evans replied.

"You'll see in a minute," Emily assured him. "How many fighters did your men capture?"

"Seventeen. Twelve more were killed. And you'll like this. They're _all_ Arabic speakers. No Afghanis in the bunch."

This was good news. While the battalion was accompanied by a pair of highly competent Dari and Pashto translators, neither translator was trained in profiling. Emily found it much more difficult to assist in the profiling and interrogation of subjects who didn't speak a language she understood. Word choice and intonation were invaluable indicators, and they were often impossible to pick up while working through an interpreter. She'd get a much better read listening to an Arabic speaker.

It also meant she'd likely be working with Farid Nazari, the Arabic-speaking Army interrogator assigned to the battalion. Even when dealing with Arabic speakers, Emily rarely directly ran the interrogation. Most of the captured fighters they dealt abjectly refused to talk to a woman, so Emily observed from another room and fed the interrogator advice through an ear piece, often advising changes in approach based on the subject's behavior. Emily had already worked with Nazari a few times and had a high opinion of his skills. He was keen to pick up behavioral and profiling tips from Emily to help improve his approach. He was also one of the few soldiers who had a lot in common with Emily. The son of a Saudi diplomat and an American mother, he shared her familiarity with hyper political parents and a nomadic childhood. He was already waiting for her by the door to the room where the latest round of captured fighters were being held.

"Farid," she greeted him.

"Hey Emily. Ready for another round?"

"Ready when you are," she replied. "Remember to watch their body language carefully. Right now it will be more important than what they say."

"Right. Let's go."

Emily followed him into a long, narrow room dimly lit by a few dusty bulbs. The 17 fighters, dirty and thin yet defiant, sat on the floor, held at gunpoint by five troops. A few of the captives sported recently-bandaged wounds. Emily's and Nazari's entrance caused a stirring. Emily knew her presence was particularly unwelcome. She took a few moments to observe them without speaking. Her brown eyes flitting over each face individually, taking in postures, micro-expressions, anything that might give her insight. Nazari watched her expectantly. Finally, Emily gave him a slight nod.

"Alright friends," he proceeded, in Arabic. "You are in the custody of the United States Army. You will be fed soon, and any other medical needs you have will be attended to. Like us, you are all far from home and some of you may have families. Your time will be much easier with us if you answer our questions. You may even get to go home. So I'm going to ask you first, where are you from? We know you are not Afghani. Where are you from and why are you here?"

Silence. So these guys were at least somewhat committed. Emily surveyed each one again, then she made her move.

"He asked you where you came from," she said firmly, also in Arabic. As she said this, she slowly, deliberately lowered the scarf from her head. This had the effect she expected. Several of the captives angrily spat abuse at her. One of them made such a disgusting threat, Nazari actually grabbed the man's collar and struck him in the face.

"Shut your filthy mouth," Nazari spat at the offender.

"What'd he say?" one of the guarding soldiers asked.

"He called me a whore," Emily answered nonchalantly, brining the scarf back over her head. The man had actually said something much worse, but Emily didn't want to get anybody riled up, especially as she had everything she needed to start with.

"Farid," she signaled to Nazari. "Come on, let's go.

"But…" he protested, still holding the man by the collar.

"Come on," she said more insistently, a warning undertone in her voice.

Reluctantly, Nazari released the man and followed Emily back out of the room.

"Emily, I'm sorry about that," he said as soon as the door closed. "I…"

"Forget it, screw that guy. It's exactly what I expected," she dismissed. "What did you see?"

Nazari thought hard for a moment.

"The two men on the far left," he said at last. "They were sitting more closely together than the others. Family from the looks of it. Probably brothers."

"Good," she agreed. "Who do we interrogate?"

"The younger one. Kid can't be more than sixteen. Probably scared to death."

"I don't agree," Emily replied.

"Why not?"

"Nine times out of ten, I'd say you're right. But the body language tells a different story this time," she explained. "Even though they were sitting close together, the younger one had his body turned away from the older brother and he was looking away the whole time, blocking him out. The older brother was trying to lean in, and kept looking at the younger one trying to make eye contact. He was trying to protect him, and the younger one wasn't looking for protection."

"Got it."

"Also. When I uncovered my head, the younger brother was one of the ones shouting at me, while the older one didn't say anything. You might not have noticed because you were busy defending my honor, which I appreciate," she added earnestly.

"So what are you thinking?"

"The younger brother will be harder to break because he's the true believer in the cause. He's the one who wanted to leave his family to come fight. The older brother came along to try and keep an eye on him and protect him. Either out of obligation to his brother or loyalty to his parents, probably a little bit of both. His top priority isn't ideology; it's his brother's safety. That's the key. We either offer that or threaten it – depending on how the interrogation goes – and we'll find out what he knows."

"I'll take your word for it," Nazari agreed. He reopened the door to the room where the captives were being held and spoke to the guard closest to the door. "The one second from the left with the splotchy beard, bring him over to interrogation."

…

Three hours later, Emily and Farid sat across from one another at a battered old card table in the empty mess tent, drinking foul tasting instant coffee and hoping against hope that the quickness of their interrogation hadn't been too good to be true.

"Damn good job you two," Major Evans said, arriving abruptly. "I just got a call from central command in Kabul. They've already confirmed finding IEDs at two of the five sites you listed and have detained six people planning an attack on that new girl's school in Helmand province. Outstanding work."

"Thank you, Sir," Farid answered.

"How the hell did you get that done so fast?" Evans asked.

"Emily had the right guy picked out," Farid explained. "From there it just took a little digging and the right amount of pressure."

"Well, whatever you did, you saved a lot of lives tonight," Evans said approvingly. "Nazari, you take tomorrow off. Sleep as long as you like. Prentiss, I'd like to say the same to you, but your transport to Kabul arrives at oh-ten hundred hours tomorrow. Selfishly speaking, I'm sad to see you go."

"Thank you, Major," Emily said earnestly.

"Good night, you two," Evans said.

"Good night," Emily replied.

"Good night, Sir," Farid said.

"You're a genius, Emily" Farid said after Major Evans left. "They oughta send you after Bin Laden."

Emily laughed as she drained the last dregs of her abhorrent coffee.

"They don't need a profile of Bin Laden, he's put himself out there for the whole world to see. True believer _and_ a narcissist. He'll go down fighting. Everybody knows that. They just need to find him. That's not my area of expertise."

"I still think you'd be an asset," Farid insisted. "I hate that we're losing you tomorrow. Where are you going?"

"There's a group of women detained outside of Kabul who are proving a bit reluctant to provide information," Emily answered. "They're hoping a female interrogator will prove more helpful."

"Makes sense, but I still wish you could stay here."

"I may be back yet," Emily said. It was true. Emily usually never knew where she was going more than a few days in advance. The paucity of qualified Agency profilers proficient in Middle Eastern languages meant she and her colleagues were constantly being shunted from assignment to assignment based on immediate need. Emily had already worked with a few other batallions on multiple separate occasions. "And you'll be fine without me. You are the one who actually broke our guy tonight."

"You got the ball rolling," Farid reminded her. "But I'll do the best I can."

"I'm sure you will," Emily replied, rising from the table and extending her hand. "I'd better turn in for the night. If I don't see you it's been good working with you."

"You too," Farid said, shaking Emily's hand. "Stay safe."

"I'll do my best."

…

Despite the fact that she had a helicopter to catch, Emily did allow herself to sleep in some the following morning. It wasn't as if she had a lot of things to pack. Two changes of clothes, a toiletries kit, a few photographs, and a pair of battered paperbacks – _Slaughterhouse Five_ and _Wuthering Heights_ – she'd read and re-read a half dozen times each since she returned to Afghanistan following her brief break in July. After neatly packing her belongings, she holstered her firearm, slung her rucksack over her shoulder, and surveyed her tent to make sure she wasn't leaving anything behind. As much as she hated the constant reassignments, she wasn't too torn up about leaving this particular placement. The CIA's compound in Kabul was no palace, but it would be nice to spend at least a few days sleeping in a real room and not showing in a tent.

Satisfied that she had completely cleared her few possessions, Emily slid her safety glasses and scarf back over her face to protect herself from the sandy gales that hadn't quite let up, and made her way out of her tent and toward the helicopter landing site. Her transport was touching down just as she arrived.

Emily watched as the rotors died down and five heavily geared soldiers ambled out of the copter. The pilot removed his helmet to reveal a sweaty mess of blonde hair.

"Agent Prentiss, I assume?" he asked, shaking Emily's hand.

"That's me."

"I'm Chief Warrant Officer Hayes, pleased to meet you," he spoke at a rapid but good-natured clip. "Myself, my crew, and this beautiful Blackhawk UH60-L are going to be taking you to Kabul today. This is my co-pilot, Warrant Officer Sanders, and our gunners Sergeant Ruiz, Sergeant Timmons, and Corporal Warren."

Each man nodded or waived in turn.

"I'd make more formal introductions, but we're on a tight schedule this morning," Hayes continued. "So if you're ready to go we'd best be off."

"Is that all you brought?" Sanders asked, pointing to Emily's rucksack.

"That's it."

"Good," Sanders approved. "Light packer, I like it. No offense, but sometimes our civilian friends pack a little heavy, especially the ladies. I'll take that, you take this," he said, handing Emily a spare helmet and taking her rucksack. Judging from the helmet's sweatband, Emily must have been the hundredth person to wear it, but she supposed she couldn't be too picky. The fit was a bit loose, but it would do the job if needed.

"Alright, good," Hayes said. "Prentiss, you're on the left side next to Ruiz. There's an extra in-flight communication headset over there. Just slip it on before we take off and you'll be good to go."

Ruiz helped Emily up into the chopper and before Emily knew it, the rotors were firing up again. She listened in silence over the intercom as the crew completed their various cross-checks. Within minutes, they were cruising along a few thousand feet over the vast, barren landscape of rural Afghanistan.

"Alright, Prentiss," Emily heard Hayes's chipper voice over the intercom. "Nothing's more boring than a silent flight over the desert. So let's chat. Where ya from?"

Emily smirked. People always asked this as a general introductory question, assuming it would be simple to answer. It never was.

"I…uh…I grew up all over," she answered. Her voice sounded strangely robotic over the radio system. "My parents worked overseas."

"Military brat?"

"Nah, State Department brat."

"Gotcha. So did you live in the States at all?"

"Yeah, Virginia mostly. I finished high school there."

"Hey, I'm from the Old Dominion too," Hayes said excitedly. "Where abouts?"

"Northern part. Prince William County, graduated from a place called Gar-Field High."

"No shit?! What year?"

"Class of '89. Why?"

"Gar-Field High class of '91 right here."

"No way."

"You better believe it. Played varsity baseball all four years. Can't say I remember you, though."

"That's to my benefit, believe me," Emily said. "I was rocking a very different look back then and it was not good."

Hayes's laugh quickly died in his throat. Emily saw the flash out of the corner of her eye about a half-second before the impact. A thundering crash sounded from the back of the chopper. The world began to spin.

"Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!" Hayes could be heard yelling over the radio. "Desert Fox 7 going down. Repeat Desert Fox 7 is going down. Timmons! Are you still with us back there?"

"Affirmative," came a crackle over the radio. "But our tail isn't. RPG. Took it clean off."

"Shit. Alright, we're gonna have to autorotate a running landing. Hold on and say your prayers, we're coming in hot."

The next few moments seemed to both last an eternity and pass by in no time at all. As the chopper hit the ground with a sickening crunch, Emily was lost in a pile of steel and dust.

…

For a moment, everything was darkness. Emily briefly entertained the thought that she might be dead. Then the world slowly began to swim back into focus. She felt the sand tearing at the inside of her nose with each breath. She saw the black hands clasp the shoulders of her tan jacket and begin to pull her from the wreckage. The muffled noise floating through the air above her finally clarified into Sanders's booming voice.

"Prentiss. Prentiss, are you okay?" the co-pilot asked, as he extricated her from under the remains of chopper's left door.

"Yeah," she answered. "Wait, no." Something was wrong. She wasn't quite sure yet what it was, but she knew something was wrong. As Sanders continued to pull her from the wreckage, she saw it. About three inches below the knee, her left leg was sticking out at an angle that could only be described as grotesque. Emily couldn't believe she wasn't in more pain. The mere sight made her slightly nauseous.

"Shit," Sanders muttered. "Alright, you're going to be okay. Sit tight. Everybody else okay?"

"No, Hayes is pretty messed up," Warren said shakily from a few feet away.

"Is he alive?" Sanders asked.

"Yeah, for now, but he's out cold."

Emily glanced over to her right. Hayes was sprawled out with blood coming steadily from his nose. His helmet was cracked nearly in half.

"Alright, we need to secure the site now, who knows what's out there," Sanders said, taking charge. Ruiz, you're with me. We'll sweep out north and east. Timmons and Warren, you take south and west. Three minutes then head back here."

"Got it," Timmons answered. He and Warren gave a last worried glance at Hayes then swept out with their weapons at the ready. Sanders crouched down beside Emily. It was only now that she could see his nose was broken.

"Prentiss, you have your firearm?"

She fumbled momentarily around her right hip before her hand closed on the grip of her Glock.

"Yeah," she said, unholstering the weapon.

"Locked and loaded?"

Emily racked the slide and heard the top bullet of her magazine click into the chamber.

"Is now."

"Good, okay listen. Hayes sent a distress call when we went down. Help should be 10 to 15 minutes out. We should be back in a few minutes. If something happens, you fight like hell."

"I can do that,"

"Good," he said, clapping her on the shoulder before rising. "Hopefully we'll be back. Let's go Ruiz."

Emily watched the pair rush away and disappear over the crest of a nearby hill. She was now alone with Hayes and could hear the blood pounding in her ears. Glancing over at the unconscious pilot beside her, Emily wasn't sure he would make it. There was blood coming out of his ear now. Internal injuries. He probably wouldn't last long without medical attention.

Careful not to move her injured leg too much, Emily propped herself into a better sitting position. She rested her finger next to the trigger and listened. For several agonizing minutes, she could hear nothing aside from the rapid pounding of her own heart and the drifts of wind softly pushing sand against the wreckage. Then suddenly, she heard someone approaching from the west behind her, the sure sound of boots on rock. Still keeping her finger just off the trigger, she quickly turned, aiming her gun in the direction of the sound. The then quickly stood down.

"Just us," Timmons said cautiously. "Everything's clear over there. Looks like Sanders and Ruiz are coming back too."

Emily looked over and saw the two men emerging over the crest of the hill to the east.

"All good," Sanders said. "Wherever those little shits are, they aren't going to reach us before we get out of here."

Now that she knew they were secure, Emily turned the safety on and slipped her Glock back into the holster. She was breathing a little easier, but this wasn't all good news. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, she felt the pain in her leg properly for the first time. A waive of nausea hit her out of nowhere.

"Prentiss, you alright?" Sander asked. "You look a little green."

"Give me a second," she grunted. Turning her head to the side, she vomited. The disgusting sour taste burned her throat and nostrils.

"Better?" Sanders asked.

"Not particularly," she grunted. "You wouldn't happen to have any gum would you?"

Sanders actually managed to crack a small smile. "I'm 'fraid not. But I've got better news. Evac is here."

Sure enough, Emily could make out another helicopter fast approaching. Less than a minute later it was landing beside them, stirring up a fresh round of dust and sand. Two medics ran out and helped Warren and Timmons lift Hayes onto a stretcher and carry him into the chopper. After he was secure. Sanders and Ruiz each took a side and lifted Emily onto their shoulders. It took everything she had to suppress a howl of pain as her dangling left leg shifted beneath her. By the time they lifted her up into the evac chopper, she felt ready to throw up again.

"Can we get some pain meds over here?" Sanders asked a medic. "Her leg's a wreck."

"What's your name hon?" the medic asked. It took Emily a second to realize she was looking at the first other woman she'd seen in six weeks.

"Prentiss," Emily struggled. "Emily Prentiss."

"Alright, you're going to be just fine. Is it alright if I give you a little shot to knock you out?"

Yes. Emily thought. Oh God, yes. They were taking off and she shifting was making her waves of white-hot pain even worse if that were possible.

"Whatever you got," she managed.

"Okay, just stay with me here for a few more seconds."

Emily barely felt the pinch of the syringe sinking into her arm. A few seconds later she felt herself sinking into merciful, black sleep.

…

The room was dim when Emily finally awoke. The first thing she registered was the rhythmic beeping of the monitors. Then the steady drip of the IV. After her eyes adjusted, she could see her left leg elevated in front of her, obscured by heavy bandaging. The pain was still there, but much duller, more bearable.

"Good, you're awake." Emily hadn't even realized she wasn't alone in the room. A short but muscular man in sky blue scrubs was beside her. "I thought we might have to give you something if you didn't come around soon. Can you tell me your name?"

"Emily Prentiss," she said groggily. Still trying to take in her surroundings.

"Good. How old are you?"

"32."

"Good. Birthday?"

"October 12."

"Good. You're doing great Emily," the man said gently. "My name's Kevin. I'm your nurse for a few more hours. I'm going to check your vitals really quick and then we'll get the doctors in here."

"How long have I been out?" she asked, her raspy voice barely coming out louder than a whisper.

"A little over 36 hours now," Kevin said. Apparently he read the shock in Emily's expression.

"The doctors at the field hospital did a decent job setting your leg, but you needed rods to hold it and they don't have the facilities to do in-depth orthopedic procedures there. Even a small mistake might have left you limping for life. So they transferred you here as soon as possible. We decided to keep you out the whole time instead of waking you up between the flight and the surgery. Didn't want to put you through any more pain than necessary."

"Flight," Emily managed? "What flight? Where am I?"

"Landstuhl Army Medical Center, Kaiserlauten," Kevin explained. "Welcome to Germany."


	6. Unexpected Visitors

_Author's Note: Hey all. So, I only made the self-imposed deadline by the skin of my teeth, but here's this weekend's update. It's a bit of a slower chapter. Things are going to build a little bit before we get back to the action. I'll update again by the weekend at the latest. Might try and get two chapters in this week. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy!_

…

 _Germany_ , _December 2002_

"Six months?"

"On _average,_ Agent Prentiss," the surgeon said wearily, with the distinct air of a man who was quite used to dealing with difficult, protesting patients. "It all depends on how fast the bones heal. Your timetable is three to four months and then two months of rehabilitation. If you skimp on that you might find yourself right back here."

"That's a long time off the job," Emily remarked.

"Right now getting better _is_ your job," Dr. Harris countered. "I'm sure your bosses plan for these contingencies. You can't throw all of your employees into a war zone and not expect that a few of them will get banged up. I suggest you take things one step at a time. Your surgery went very well, now you need to focus on the short-term recovery. As soon as the swelling goes down, we'll work on getting you moving around a little bit. Do you have any more questions for me?"

"No, thank you Doctor," Emily answered, somewhat defeated.

"Dammit, six months," she complained again after the doctor left.

"You had a clean break of both bones," Kevin, her nurse, reminded her. "Five or six months is the best you're going to do. And frankly you should count that as a miracle. You were in a helicopter crash. A lot of our guys don't walk away from those, even on one leg."

That reminded Emily of something. Drug-induced state or not, she couldn't believe she hadn't though of him already. Hayes.

"Kevin, speaking of. The pilot in our crash…"

"Hayes is alive," Kevin said. Emily had the sneaking suspicion that he'd been waiting for her to ask this question. "He's actually here. You two were on the same flight out of Afghanistan."

"How is he?" Emily asked hesitantly.

"He had a subdural hematoma. The field hospital saved his life, but there's significant swelling. He's in a medically induced comma. He's really doing as well as he can, but we're just not going to know anything for awhile. His wife and kids are with him."

Emily didn't know how to feel. On the one hand, she was glad Hayes was alive. But for how long? And even if he lived, would he be permanently brain damaged? And with a family on top of it all. The whole situation made Emily feel sick. He wouldn't have even been there that day if it weren't for her.

"Are you okay?" Kevin asked observantly.

"Huh? Yeah," Emily said, gathering herself quickly. She couldn't let Kevin know the reason why she felt guilty. As far as she knew, the purpose of the their trip was still classified information. "It's just…he saved my life. You know? Landing that thing."

"Yours and four others. He's a hero, that's for sure. And his medical team is doing everything they can to make him better. Which is my job with you. You need to get some more rest. Are you in any pain."

"Not really."

"Really?" Kevin said accusingly, but with good humor, raising his eyebrows nearly all the way up into his curly auburn hair. "Liar."

"What, are you psychic or something?" Emily quipped. Even though she resented being taken care of, she was starting to like Kevin. He was a matter-of-fact guy with a solid sarcasm streak. Emily could work with that.

"I can see your blood pressure," he reminded her. "And it's _way_ too high. "Besides, all of my patients here are the same. Trying way too hard to be tough. It's a shared trait of the military guys and you James Bond types."

Despite the fact that she actually was in a considerable amount of discomfort, Emily managed to get a good chuckle out of this. Sitting around for days on end trying to apply psychoanalytical theories to total strangers hardly qualified as the stuff of silver screen legend status.

"It's _so_ far from James Bond."

"Is that a fact?" Kevin asked mischievously as he fed more pain medication into Emily's IV. "Then what exactly do you do?"

"I'm sure you know I can't tell you that," she answered.

"Aha!" he said triumphantly. "A very James Bond-like answer. You've totally been in an evil villain shark tank lair."

"Actually, I'm pretty sure James Bond tells everybody what he does," Emily pointed out.

"Fair enough. Alright, you should be all set," he assured her, after double-checking the dosages. "You'll be out in a few minutes. My shift ends soon, you'll be with Jake when you wake up."

"Is Jake as good as you?" Emily teased.

"Of course not," Kevin quipped. "But he's a good kid. Knows is medical stuff really well. Just a little bit of an eager beaver. Talks a lot. He's honestly a little young for this particular posting, but his parents are connected in the government. I think the poor kid is a bit insecure about it and overcompensates by trying too hard. Plenty smart, though. You'll be fine."

"I'll take your word for it," Emily yawned. The medication was starting to kick in. The deep pain in her leg going pleasantly numb again.

"Get some sleep 007," Kevin winked cheekily. "I'll see you tomorrow."

It was less than a minute before Emily once again succumbed to a drug-induced haze.

…

Emily's sleep wasn't particularly peaceful this time around. She had several disjointed dreams about helicopters and sand. Intermittently, these dreams were interrupted by raised voices. Arguing. Emily couldn't quite make out the voices, but they seemed strangely familiar. At some point, the voices stopped. After a several hours of fitful slumber, Emily awoke. The scene that greeted he hardly made anymore sense than her dreams.

"Hey, there Em. How're you feeling?" Richard Prentiss asked his daughter, an even blend of concern and tiredness in his eyes.

"Dad?" Emily asked, thoroughly confused. "What's going on? You shouldn't be here."

"A fact of which they are well aware," Kevin seethed. Emily could tell he was extremely pissed off, a total change from the chipper sarcastic guy he'd been earlier.

It also didn't escape Emily's attention that Kevin had say _they_ are well aware. Sure enough, Elizabeth Prentiss was there too. Unlike her husband, whose loosened tie and disheveled hair betrayed his exhaustion, the Ambassador's dark hair remained perfectly coiffed, her black suit nearly wrinkle-free. She probably could have walked strait out of the hospital and into a treaty negotiation. But her expressions was hardly diplomatic. Her eyes betrayed concern, but her tightly crossed arms and set jaw also clearly signaled her seething rage. She said nothing, and seemed determined to avoid eye contact with her daughter, or anyone else for that matter.

Since neither of her parents seemed to be in an explaining mood, Emily turned to the nurse.

"Kevin, what's going on? I thought this Jake guy was supposed to be here?" Emily's voice still hadn't fully regained its strength. She hated how weak she sounded, especially in the presence of her mother.

"Jake is getting his ass handed to him right now," Kevin answered. "Apparently, when he's given the order, 'The identity of your patient is strictly confidential' he hears, 'The identity of your patient is strictly confidential, unless your mother happens to work with the patient's mother. Then you can open your trap.'"

"And thank God he did," Elizabeth finally interjected angrily. "My daughter gets blown out of the sky and you people act like I don't have a right to know!"

"You don't, Mother," Emily said.

"How dare you," Elizabeth started, rounding on Emily. But Richard stopped his wife mid-sentence.

"Beth, don't. Calm down," he said. Gently grabbing Elizabeth's shoulder.

"I'd listen to your husband, Ambassador," Kevin seethed. "I won't hesitate for a second to have MPs escort you out. I don't care who you are. I'm not going to let you yell at a post-op patient."

"That won't be necessary," Richard said, speaking more to his wife than to the nurse. Kevin still looked doubtful.

"It's fine, Kevin," Emily backed up her father. "Can you step out for a few minutes? I need to talk to my parents." Kevin didn't look too keen on the suggestion, but reluctantly agreed after catching Emily's pleading gaze.

"I'll be right outside. Hit the call button if you need me?"

"Of course," Emily agreed.

Kevin left slowly and deliberately. Shooting one last scathing glance at Elizabeth and Richard before carefully shutting the door behind him.

"How much do you know?" Emily demanded.

"That you were with the CIA in Afghanistan, got shot down in a helicopter, and by all rights should be dead right now. Jesus Christ, Emily what else is there to know?" Elizabeth demanded.

Actually, there was quite a bit more to know. About six years' worth. But Emily wasn't about to share that.

"And to make matters worse when I _do_ find out it's not even from you. It's through Mary Worcester and her son."

"Glad I can be an exciting subject of the State Department gossip mill," Emily said. "If you want you own juicy tidbit to bring back, you can tell Ms. Worcester he son is probably going to court marshaled for the crap he pulled."

"Be fair, Emily," Richard tried to reason. "Jake Worcester was probably overeager, but I'm sure he just wanted your family to know what was going on."

"The orders he violated are in place to keep people like me from being killed, Dad," Emily retorted. "There's a reason nobody is supposed to know these things. Family or not." She thought it was a bit hypocritical of her father to play the "family" card anyway. He'd always been able to be a family man at his convenience.

"Just try and look at it from our perspective," her father pleaded. "This whole time we've thought you were working for the Defense Department, safe in D.C., only to get a call to find out you've been hurt in a war zone halfway around the world. We both got on the first flights we could find. And to top it all of, it's two days before Christmas!"

"Technically, I do work for the Defense Department," Emily replied. "And I told you I wouldn't be around for Christmas."

"Yes, spending the holiday with your friend Frank down in the Carolinas again," Elizabeth recalled acidly. "I assume that was a lie last year as well?"

Emily said nothing.

"Why Emily?" Elizabeth asked, making eye contact with her daughter for the first time. Emily noticed that her tone had softened ever so slightly, though there was still plenty of edge. "Why do you feel like you have to do this?"

"I don't _have_ to do it, Mother. Believe it or not, I want to. I like it. I'm good at it. And where do you get off being mad at me for what I do? We play for the same team. You just do your work at the negotiating table. I do mine under the radar."

"It is not the same thing," Elizabeth insisted. "What you do is reckless. I don't understand you sometimes. I really don't."

"Like that's anything new," Emily scoffed.

"Enough," Richard interjected, wearily. "That's enough. Beth, Emily's tired, you're tired, I'm tired. It's time to give it a rest." He was almost pleading with his wife and daughter.

"Alright," Elizabeth agreed at last, still scrutinizing her daughter. "Emily, are you comfortable, or do you want me to send someone in."

"I'm fine, Mother. Thank you."

"Your mother and I are staying here for the time being. They have lodging for family members. You still have our cell phone numbers?"

"Of course I do."

"Then you know how to reach us. Get some rest."

"You too," Emily said flatly.

Richard and Elizabeth turned to go. For the first time in ages, Emily noticed them holding hands. Elizabeth paused at the door.

"I almost forgot, we brought you a few things. They're on your beside table."

With that, Elizabeth and Richard were gone. Emily glanced over at her beside table. There, neatly stacked and in alphabetical order – certainly the Ambassador's doing, Emily thought – were the complete works of Vonnegut.

…

Emily fell asleep about fifty pages into _Timequake_. When she stirred again, the book had fallen to the floor beside her bed. It had fallen at the feet of her father, who was slumped in a chair beside her bed, snoring. Emily noticed he still hadn't changed.

"Dad," Emily hissed. Her father stirred.

"Huh?"

"What are you doing here? What time is it?" It had to be late, the hospital was relatively quiet and still and the lights in the room were dim. Richard blinked a few times at his wristwatch.

"It's about 1:30 in the morning. I came down about an hour ago to see if you were game for a nightcap," he said a bit mischievously. He reached in his messenger bag and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of eggnog. "It is technically Christmas Eve now."

"Is there booze in that?" Emily asked suspiciously.

"Of course there is," Richard said, with mock offense. "As if I'd offer my own daughter that abominable fake stuff."

"Can I even drink alcohol?" Emily asked skeptically?

"I checked with your nurse. She told me in confidence that a smidge would be okay. Just, uh, don't tell your mother."

"My lips are sealed," Emily assured him, cracking a small smile. "Just do me a favor and lift the bed up a little bit so I don't spill it all over myself."

Richard obliged, fiddling with the controls on the side of Emily's bed until she was more upright. He then poured eggnog into each of the two glasses, giving himself a significantly more generous portion than the sliver he poured for Emily before handing her a glass.

"Cheers, Em," he said, lightly clinking his glass against hers.

"Cheers, Dad." She took a swig. It was a satisfyingly sweet mixture with just the right hint of bourbon. Emily ruefully wished she could have more.

"Good?" Richard asked.

"Very," Emily agreed. "Where did you get this? Eggnog's not really a thing in Europe."

"Give me some credit, I know people," Richard answered.

"As long as you didn't break any customs laws."

"Oh, since when do you care about rules?" Richard scoffed, with good humor. "Is this not my daughter who had a not-so-secret pot stash in her backpack when she traveled with her father?"

"We were traveling in Amsterdam," she protested.

"You were 15."

"True," she conceded. Dabbling in marijuana had been one of the least of her 15-year-old problems, but her father was never to know that.

"So," she asked, after draining what little remained in her glass. "You going to tell me why you really came down here?"

"Bringing you a little Christmas Eve spirit isn't enough?" Richard tried to deflect.

"It was very nice," Emily agreed. "But it's not why you came down here. You've been fidgeting a bit. That's not like you."

"You know it's eerie when you do that, right?" Richard asked. "Is that what they had you doing overseas? Reading people like books?"

"I can't tell you about that," Emily reminded him. "You going to tell me why you're really here or not?"

"Alright," Richard sighed. "I just wanted to talk to you about…well…let you know. Your Grandad's money. Emily, that chunk you got when you turned 30 isn't all. There's plenty more. You don't need to work…"

"You're kidding, right?" Emily cut him off angrily. "You came down here to _bribe_ me to quit my job?"

"Don't put it like that," he protested.

"Well, how do you want me to put it, Dad?" she demanded. "That's exactly what it is. The answer is no, by the way. I'm not going to live as some socialite on Grandad's money. If I wanted to do that I could have done it already. That chunk you gave me wasn't small, and my father taught me a few things about investing."

Richard smiled wryly despite himself.

"I didn't expect you to answer any differently," he admitted. "But I still had to ask."

"Mother put you up to it," Emily said. It wasn't a question.

"It was her idea, but I'd be lying if I didn't wish you'd accept."

Emily groaned.

"Why can she just ask me these things herself?"

"Because you'd react three times as badly as you would hearing it from me, and we all know it. You really should be more fair to your mother, Emily. I know you two are never going to be best friends, but she does care about you. She always has."

"I never said she didn't care," Emily said. "But she doesn't respect me. Never wants to listen to me. She always thinks her way is the only way. She's _so_ stubborn."

"A trait that seems to have served her daughter pretty well," Richard pointed out. Emily rolled her eyes, but there was probably more truth to her father's statement than she cared to admit.

"If you won't let me bribe you out of your job, will you at least entertain another proposition?"

"That depends on what it is," Emily said.

"We talked to one of your doctors earlier today," Richard explained. "He said the plan was to keep you here for while until your leg's out of a cast. Then they'll send you back to D.C. for rehab at Walter Reid or Bethesda."

"Yeah, that's the plan. Why?"

"Would you consider doing it here?" Richard asked. "I'm working out of Berlin for the most part right now. Your mother isn't far away in Luxembourg. I know we have no right to ask this, but knowing that you were off in the Middle East while we had no clue…it's a hard feeling to swallow Emily. Even for a chronically absentee father. We would feel a lot better if we knew you were close. Even if it's just temporary."

Emily thought for a moment.

"Can they do it here?"

"Yes, I already asked your doctor. If anything they think it will save the stress of a flight on your leg."

"Alright," she agreed. "Deal."

"And we want dinner twice a month while you're in rehab."

"You buying?"

"Of course."

"Deal. Anything else?"

Richard sighed.

"What?"

"You're not going to like it."

"What is it?"

"Your mother wants you to accompany us to the State Department Charity Gala."

"You can't be serious," Emily demanded. Emily's parent had dragged her to the State Department's gala every year from the age of 8 until she fled for college. It was suffocating. An entire evening spent with 200 clones of her parents. Careerist political types, all constantly posturing. When she was little, she hated it because her parents constantly acted as if the was a potential source of embarrassment. She needed to be seen, not heard. As she grew older and was starting to show academic promise, it was completely the opposite. Suddenly she was a trophy daughter, shown off as some great credit to her parents. Another accolade for the mantelpiece. The last time she went, two weeks after graduating high school (and duly scrubbed of her Cure-esque hair and makeup for the night), Emily thought her parents probably mentioned Yale a thousand times between them. She'd briefly entertained the idea of flashing the French ambassador, a notorious philanderer, just to embarrass them.

"Emily, please. It's one night. Throw your mother a bone for a change."

"When and where?"

"Switzerland. May 14."

"If I have things my way I'll be back out on assignment by then."

"If you're gone, you're gone," Richard allowed. "But if you're not, please come with us."

"Alright, but the guilt trips about my job stop."

"Emily, we'll always worry…"

"Worry all you want, no more bribes, no more guilt trips."

"Okay."

"That goes for mother too."

"I'm sure she'll understand. But speaking of, I better get back before she notices I snuck off with a bottle of liquor."

"Yeah, you probably should," Emily agreed. "Tell her I said thanks for the books."

"I think you should tell her yourself. She'll be down in the morning."

"Fair enough. Happy Christmas Eve, Dad."

"Happy Christmas Eve, Em."


	7. A New Assignment

_Hey all, sorry for the late update! I work a full-time job and I've been traveling the last few weekends, so just not a lot of time to write. On top of that, this chapter required some research and also ended up being fairly long because it sets up a transitional shift; I needed to get a few things out of the way and/or set-up for the next parts of the story. I SHOULD be able to get back to weekly updating now._

 _Side Note on CM Cannon: I've been re-watching a lot of Criminal Minds to make sure that this story stays close to cannon as I progress toward events that are referenced in the show (particularly Season 6). I've found a few inconsistencies in the show, which I just had to choose to resolve one way or another. Also, I noticed a few details that I think are just stupid, so I'm ignoring them (these are pretty minor and probably not that noticeable, I'm slightly crazy)._

 _Anyway, thanks as always for reading. I hope you enjoy!_

…

 _Berlin, May 2003_

Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right.

The rhythmic pounding of her footsteps on the pavement was music to Emily's ears. She took particular pleasure every time she could mentally tick off a "Left." Keeping her steady clip, she emerged from the blooming trees in the Tiergarten, flew past the Reichstag, and onto the Unter den Linden. The back of her faded old Georgetown t-shirt was soaked in perspiration by the time she'd reached her stopping point at the Brandenburg Gate. It felt good to be distance running again. She didn't even begrudge the deep ache in her left leg. It was a reminder of the hard-won progress of the last few months.

Finally breaking her stride, Emily glanced at her watch. She'd made satisfactory time. As far as she knew, the CIA wasn't going to make her re-qualify on her physical tests, but if they did she was sure to pass. Only a few days before, she'd easily passed her firearm recertification on the gun range at Ramstein Air Base. She'd been surprised by how familiar the grip of her Glock still felt after several months.

Nearing the end of a miniature vacation she'd allowed herself after finishing grueling weeks of physical therapy, Emily was due back at the medical center at Landstuhl the following morning for what she hoped was her final follow-up exam. She still had a good five hours before she needed to be off to the train station to catch the overnight. It was far too gorgeous of a day to spend back inside at the hotel. She found an open seat in an outdoor café just off the Pariser Platz. Normally she would take this sort of opportunity to catch up on reading, but today she found people watching much more interesting. The tourist season was just beginning. Hundreds of people of dozens of nationalities passed by on the way to nearby sites. In addition to the German of the natives, Emily heard frequent use of English (including several fellow Americans), French, and what was certainly Turkish.

For the first time, Emily saw a slight bright side to being injured. If not for the crash, she'd probably still be huddled in some God-forsaken dust bowl instead of getting ready to enjoy a beer on a beautiful day. She immediately felt a pang of guilt. There were plenty of people still in Afghanistan doing their job who deserved a European spring as much if not more than she did. All the more reason to get cleared for duty and back to work.

Emily's guilt-driven self flagellation was interrupted by a waitress appearing at long last to take her order.

"Ein Weizenbier, bitte," Emily asked.

"Better make that zwei Weizenbiere," a familiar voice said. Jack Peterson settled himself into the chair across the table from Emily. The waitress looked skeptical for a moment, but when Emily didn't object, she noted Jack's order and left to retrieve their drinks.

"Since when do you speak German?" Jack asked Emily.

"I don't."

"You just did."

"That doesn't count. Anybody who's been in Germany for ten minutes can figure out how to order a beer," Emily pointed out. "Anyway, how are you? And what are you doing here?"

"I'm good," Peterson answered. He didn't look it. It had been only a few months since Emily last saw him. He'd come to see her in the hospital a few days after the snafu with her parents. But in that short amount of time, the man who recruited her to the CIA had aged significantly. The number of lines in his face seemed to have doubled, and he had dark shadows underneath his eyes. Peterson must have known Emily would notice, because he quickly changed the focus of the conversation to her.

"More importantly, I'm here to check the status of my favorite protégé. I checked with your hotel and they said you'd gone for a run. I thought I might find you out and about in this area. How's the leg."

"It feels good," Emily said, mostly truthfully. "I feel ready."

"Well, we'll find out for sure tomorrow, won't we?" Peterson mused.

"We will," Emily agreed. "Which begs the question, if you're just here to check up on me and you know I won't have any official results until tomorrow…what are you actually doing here?"

Peterson snorted.

"Always suspicious."

"Only when I have good reason," Emily countered.

"Fair enough," Peterson capitulated. "But why don't we wait until our drinks arrive. I don't want to be interrupted."

For the next five minutes, they exchanged tidbits of idle chat. Emily talked about her parents, how they had slowly given up on trying to ask her about her job and instead contented themselves with talking about theirs, though not without liberally peppering the conversations with questions about her rehab. Meanwhile, Peterson shared that his daughter, the youngest of three, had just graduated high school.

"Headed to college, I assume?" Emily asked.

"Georgetown."

"Excellent choice," Emily approved.

The waitress arrived with their beers. Peterson inclined his glass toward Emily.

"To your good health," he toasted.

"Cheers."

They both took a moment to savor their first drink. Emily was much more of a wine person than a beer person, but even she had to admit, nobody did beer quite like the Germans. Finally, she broke the contented silence to re-ask her burning question.

"So, are you going to tell me why you're here?" she said, lowering her voice, assuming that whatever Peterson came to discuss wasn't exactly public information.

"Well," he said, similarly dropping the volume of his tone, "given your progress, it's expected that you'll receive a clean bill of health tomorrow. I'm here to discuss your next assignment."

"About time," Emily commented. "Where am I off to?"

"Not very far," Peterson answered. "You'll be working out of Brussels."

"Come again?" Emily stammered.

"The CIA has been entering a series of Joint Task Forces with other Western intelligence agencies," Peterson explained, still in a low voice that only Emily could hear. "The government thinks pooling resources and information is the best way to try and prevent another attack. The latest project is Joint Task Force 12. It's tasked with one thing: Use the best available profiling methods to assist in tracking down, arresting, and providing interrogation roadmaps terrorist threats in Europe. It's a small, elite group. Five people. One person each from the CIA, Interpol, British SIS, French DGSE, and German BND. Since I recruited most of our top psychological operations specialists, I was asked to give my opinion. I strongly suggested that you be our contribution, and the brass agreed."

Emily wasn't exactly sure how to process this information. She hadn't been quite sure what to expect, but it wasn't this. Peterson picked up on her confusion.

"Something wrong?" he asked, his gray brow furrowed.

"No," Emily struggled. "It's just…"

"You thought you were going to Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Well…yeah," Emily answered. "There's still a shortage of Arabic speakers available, and you _know_ we're going to run into just as many Arabic-speaking insurgents in Iraq as we have in Afghanistan. Why wouldn't the Agency send me back to the Middle East?"

"That's my doing," Peterson answered. "I didn't want you back there."

"What?" Emily hissed indignantly, fighting to keep her voice down. "I did good work there for almost two years, and you think just because I got injured I can't…"

"Stop," Peterson cut her off. Holding up his hand. Emily could have slapped him. "Just stop. It has nothing to do with your ability. I don't want you to be a part of what's going on there."

For the second time in a few minutes, Emily was dumbfounded by what she was hearing from her mentor.

"What are you talking about?"

Emily could sense Peterson's hesitation before he finally settled on how to answer her.

"Things…have changed since you've been away."

Emily raised her eyebrows, silently demanding an explanation. Peterson sighed, hesitating again.

"The brass is getting impatient," he said. "They don't think the current interrogation strategies are working fast enough. Some people within the Agency have started using off the grid detention sites for certain prisoners."

"Black sites?"

"Yes."

"That's not exactly unheard of," Emily pointed out.

"It's what they're doing there," Peterson explained. "It's not just the Agency that's involved. We're running it, but there's significant involvement by private contractors with Clearwater Securities. They're in it for profit and aren't accountable to anyone. Combine that with overzealous Agents…the interrogation methods being used there are not okay."

"Torture?"

"I think so, yes."

"You think so?"

"They won't let me within fifty miles of those sites, I've made my views on torture too well known throughout the years. But I've heard enough secondhand from people I trust. I'm certain that what's happening there is not a place for good people. And you're a good person."

Emily snorted derisively.

"You honestly expect me to believe that after some of the shit I've seen over the past six years that this job is about being a good person?"

"Look," Peterson said impatiently. "Do we blur lines in this work? Of course. But there are lines that aren't to be crossed and this is one. I have no hesitation in asking you to give your life for this job if necessary, but I never asked you to sell your soul. And I never will. You can't honestly tell me you would participate in torture."

"Of course not," Emily bristled at the thought. "But why does that mean I can't be over there at all? I'll do what I've always done there, and if they ask me to get involve in any of this black site shit, I'll refuse."

"And depending on who's in charge of that particular sector, your refusal might get you permanently parked at a desk back in Langley, where you'll be no good to anybody."

Emily sighed.

"Is there any way to blow the whistle on this? Call a Senator? Something?"

"If I had solid proof, I'd have done something already," Peterson said, wearing an exhausted, desperate look Emily didn't recognize. She now understood where the lines and the shadows haunting his eyes had come from. "Right now, all I can do is make sure that the good people who are part of this Agency don't get dragged down in this, and with your skill set, they would almost certainly try and suck you in. Take the JTF-12 assignment. You can keep doing good work and keep your hands clean."

"Alright," Emily agreed. "I'll take it. But if there's anyway I can help you stop this. Any way at all, let me know."

"Good. I will" Peterson seemed relieved. "And come on. You can't honestly tell me you miss the desert."

"Hell no," Emily agreed. "It's just…I went out there to stop terrorists. Stood side by side with those guys. It doesn't feel right to stay here."

"That's the beauty of the war on terror," Peterson smiled with a thick sarcasm. "You can fight it anywhere. Trust me, you'll be plenty busy."

"Can't wait," Emily remarked dryly. Drowning the last drops of golden beer from her glass. "When do I start?"

"If you pass your physical exam tomorrow, we want you out right away. Some of the other country's agents are already there. And you're welcome, by the way."

"Welcome for what?"

"Aren't you supposed to go to some gala on Wednesday with your parents? If I know you at all, you'd hate every second of it. I'm saving you."

"How the hell did you know that?" Emily asked.

"It's my job to know," he said matter-of-factly. "I actually think it's unfortunate you're missing out. You've been recovering from a helicopter crash for God's sake, you deserve to have a fancy meal and fine wine on somebody else's dime."

"My parents have taken care of that lately. Why do you think I've been putting up with them?" Emily quipped.

"Fair enough. Speaking of, this one's on me," he said, throwing down enough Euros to cover both his and Emily's tab. "Good luck tomorrow."

"Thanks Jack."

"No problem, kid. I'll catch up to you soon."

He was gone as abruptly has he came. Within thirty seconds, he'd been swept up with the rest of the sea of humanity filling the city. Just another face among thousands. Emily had to hand it to him, in six years of working in secret intelligence, she'd yet to meet anybody who had the same knack for appearing and disappearing at the drop of a hat.

Emily killed a few more hours perusing around the heart of the heart of the city before returning to her hotel to shower and catch a car to the train station. As she stood on the platform, clutching her small, inconspicuous black suitcase and waiting for her train to arrive, she tried to make some sense and order of the thoughts that had been swimming in her head since she and Peterson had parted.

Between the new war in Iraq and the ongoing problems in Afghanistan, Emily had been so sure that she would be sent back to the Middle East that she had never seriously considered the possibility of going elsewhere. She was disgusted by what Peterson had told her about the black sites. But now that she thought about it more, she was honestly not all that surprised. It was a poorly kept secret that some of the people posted in Afghanistan wanted to go farther in the interrogations. Some of them too far. Peterson was right that Emily wanted nothing to do with it other than to try and stop it. But if it was going to be stopped, people like Peterson would be in a much better position than Emily. She was well respected by her peers, but was still too young to have any real clout. She also lacked the political deftness that her mother possessed in spades. All things considered, Emily knew if she tried anything on her own, she'd probably end up fired at best, and quite possibly thrown in jail on a trumped up state secrets charge that even Ambassador Prentiss couldn't help her wiggle out of.

In addition to feeling lousy about the Afghanistan situation, Emily was surprised to find herself start to dread the idea of working in Europe. She loved Europe, always had. That was precisely why she didn't want to work there. Working with this Joint Task Force would mean exposure to some of the worst people the continent had to offer. Europe had always been a place that made her happy. Although she was in American, she'd actually spent more time living in Europe than she ever lived in the States. She was born in Virginia, but practically grew up in France and Italy, with a few detours along the way. When her mother's distant but overbearing nature became intolerable to her as a teenager, she could escape to the winding streets, open plazas, and ancient libraries. It was both a home and a refuge. She didn't want to see the dark underbelly. But that's where she'd be working now, whether she liked it or not.

True to German form, the train arrived precisely on time. Emily was thankful she'd bought a ticket for a sleeping car. All of the thoughts swimming in her head had made her exhausted. She hurried to her car and swallowed a few aspirin to quell the dull ache that still that still pounded in her leg. They took awhile to kick in, but as the night train snaked into western Germany, Emily was sound asleep.

…

 _Landstuhl_

Emily breathed a sigh of relief as she left the exam room at Landstuhl. Although the occasional flare-ups of pain had concerned her, the doctor said that was perfectly normal and her leg was structurally sound. The aches would become less frequent with time. At long last, after five and half months, she had the clean bill of health she craved. But her euphoria was short lived. Now she had work to do. Peterson had called her that morning with further directives. If she received the all clear from the doctors, she was supposed to head to Brussels as soon as possible and rendezvous with the regional CIA office for a briefing on her new assignment.

Before getting the ball rolling on Belgium, there was one major roadblock left to clear: She was going to have to talk to her parents. She'd been stupid enough to let slip to her father she was due for a final check-up today, so of course he and Elizabeth were in town, and expected her for yet another awkward lunch. Perhaps if she'd had the good sense to be in a perilous accident earlier in life, she might have had a better relationship parents then, she mused darkly. She supposed there was no point in dwelling right now. Her parents had, rather unexpectedly, been anxiously following her progress the last few months. And for that she was grateful, if also frequently annoyed.

They weren't going to take the news well. In fact, she fully expected her mother to freak out. After her initial displeasure upon learning her daughter's true line of work, Elizabeth had had the good sense to keep her mouth shut about it. But that had been while Emily was safely cooped up at the hospital. Going back out on assignment would be a different story, and Emily wouldn't be able to share that this time she would be in Europe, where, presumably, nobody would be shooting at her with a rocket-propelled grenade. All things considered, Emily was actually starting to wish she _had_ been able to make the stupid gala and assuage her parents. And giving up her ticket this late _would_ be a waste of perfectly good dinner and alcohol. This gave Emily an idea.

She turned and hustled toward the far end of the medical center, toward the wing that large red letters identified as "Long Term Care." Hopping two flights of stairs, she found Room 369, a room she'd visited a few times before. There she found Hayes sitting on top of his bed, wearing sweatpants and a gray Army t-shirt that hung loosely on his still-too-thin frame, and mindlessly watching a horrible German-subtitled French TV show on the television.

"That bored, huh?" Emily asked, popping her head through the doorway.

"Oh, hey," Hayes said, noticeably brightening. "Haven't seen you in a few weeks. You look good."

"So do you," Emily returned.

"Pfft," he scoffed. "That's bullshit."

"Well, you look better," she said truthfully. He had lost a lot of weight after his intensive brain surgery. Emily was horrified the first time she'd seen him working across from her in the complex's massive rehab room. He'd been eerily thin and barely able to walk even with help. He recently started to regain some of his mass. The speech therapy was also clearly helping. From struggling to put together a sentence post-surgery, the slight lag in his speech pattern was now barely perceptible. All things considered, Emily thought he was making a remarkable recovery, though she still felt a twinge of guilt every time she saw him.

"Come on in, I'll turn this shit off," he said, clicking off the television. "Don't understand a thing that's going on anyway, maybe it'd be better if I could understand it."

"Trust me, it wouldn't," Emily said knowingly. "I can't stay long, I have to meet my parents. But how are you?"

"Better every day," he said, scratching at the blonde stubble that he'd recently sprouted. "They're sending me back home in a couple of weeks to finish rehab there. Might be back to normal by the end of the year."

"That's great," Emily said earnestly. "You plan on staying in the Army, or…?"

"I don't think so," Hayes answered. "I'm not going to top that last landing. And I owe my wife and kids time. Thinking about going into law enforcement. Getting shot at by our own people for a change."

Emily smiled at his black humor.

"I'm sure you'd be great," she said.

"We'll see. Just looking forward to going home for now. I've been bored out of my mind ever since my wife and kids had to go back home. Living in this place sucks."

"Yes it does," Emily agreed. "So, speaking of, what do you say about getting out of here for a couple of days for some good food, good booze, mountain air?"

Hayes raised one eyebrow quizzically.

"Uh, did you just miss the part about me being married?" he asked. Emily laughed.

"Not with me," she clarified. "Though it would be with my parents. They have this fancy fundraiser thing they're going to in Switzerland. It'll be a boring, black-tie crowd, but more fun than this place. And open bar, if you're into that."

"Who isn't?" Hayes remarked. "Why aren't you going?"

"Clean bill of health, back out on assignment."

"You're joking, right? They're sending you back out _already_?"

"Agency is spread thin, they need all hands on deck these days. And I'm more than ready to get back to it," she said.

"And your parents are okay with this?"

"About me leaving? I don't know and I don't really care. About letting you have my ticket? I haven't talked to them yet, but I'm sure they'll be more than happy to. You _did_ save their kid's ass."

"If they're okay with it and I can get clearance to go, I'm definitely in," he said. "I'd love to get the hell out of this place for a few days. Thank you."

"I owe you my life, you don't get to thank me," Emily observed.

"I was just doing my job, and saving my own ass as much as yours."

"Doesn't change the fact of the matter. I really have to get going. If I don't see you, take care of yourself," she said, extending her hand.

"You too, wherever you're going, watch your back," he said, shaking it.

"I'll do my best," she agreed, with a small smile. She then returned to the small apartment she'd been occupying in the adjacent building for long-term patients who didn't need any medical observation. After double-checking that her bags were packed, her credentials in order, and her firearm secure and ready to go for her trip to Brussels, Emily changed from her comfortable jogging pants and t-shirt into light slacks and a black Poplin and steeled herself for the impending storm of parental outrage.

…

She met her parents at an Italian-owned café that they'd frequented several times – the Ambassador had a passionate dislike of German food that bordered on comical. Emily passed most of the lunch in silence, nibbling only half-heartedly on her carbonnara. She was waiting for the right moment to drop her bombshell. Her Mother forced the issue.

"Emily, have you picked out a dress for the gala yet?" Elizabeth demanded. "You're going to need something long enough to hide that terrible scar on your leg."

Emily decided to let that particular insensitive remark slide.

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that," Emily said. "I want you to take Warrant Officer Hayes."

"The pilot?" Richard asked.

"Yes. I saw him today, he's doing much better in his recovery, but he's miserably bored. He deserves a nice night out."

"Well of course he does," Elizabeth agreed hurriedly. "But you should have said something much sooner. It'll be next to impossible for me to get a ticket this late."

"On my ticket," Emily clarified. "I'm sorry. I can't go."

Silence. Her mother blinked dangerously.

"I beg your pardon?" the Ambassador finally demanded.

"Emily, you promised," Richard pleaded.

"I promised I would go if I wasn't back out on assignment," Emily clarified. "And, as it so happens, I have to leave tonight."

"They can't," her mother hissed. Nearly knocking over the wine bottle as she pounded the table. "You just got released from medical restrictions three hours ago!"

"Three hours, three months, doesn't matter. There's only cleared for duty and not cleared for duty. I'm cleared for duty."

"This is outrageous," Elizabeth continued. "I'll speak to somebody about this."

"Yeah, that's a great idea," Emily said with heavy sarcasm. She could tolerate her mother's anger, but not her interference. '"Hello, United States Government, who also happens to be my employer. I'd like to complain about how you're treating my 32-year-old daughter, whose job I shouldn't even know about.' You'll lose your embassy post in about thirty seconds and you know it."

Elizabeth huffed. She was furious, but she couldn't argue with Emily's logic.

"Where are they sending you?" she demanded.

"I can't tell you that," Emily answered, growing annoyed now. Her mother knew better, but she just wouldn't quit.

"Are they sending you back to Afghanistan? After all of this?" Elizabeth was now on the edge of a full-blown tirade, and Emily couldn't have that in the middle of a restaurant.

"Mother stop," Emily insisted.

"Emily, please," Richard begged. "Just give us something."

"Dad, I _can't_. So you two can calm down right now, or I can leave, because there's nowhere else for this conversation to go," she threatened. Her mother looked murderous her father despondent, but they stopped arguing.

"So," Emily continued after giving them a moment. "Will you take Hayes or not?"

"Yes, sure we will." Richard said. "Is he going to need a tux?"

"Probably."

"Okay, I can arrange that. Elizabeth?" Richard turned delicately to his wife.

"Well, we might as well take _somebody_."

"Good," Emily breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

The Prentiss trio hardly said ten words to one another during the rest of the lunch. Emily tried to pick up the tab as a peace offering. Her parents refused. When it came time to part, Emily wasn't quite sure what to expect. Richard placed his arm shoulder and gave her a brief kiss on the cheek.

"Emily, just please be safe. And whatever you can let us know. Please do. Even if it's just a two second phone call to say 'I'm fine.' Just do that for me. Okay?"

"Yeah Dad," she agreed. She turned to her mother. Elizabeth was avoiding eye contact.

"Take care of yourself," was all she said.

"You too, Mother" Emily said sadly.

Emily left. She'd taken a few steps out of the café door when she heard her mother call out from behind her.

"Emily!"

Emily had barely turned around when Elizabeth crushed her in a tight embrace. Emily wasn't sure if it was the force of it, or just the shear shock of feeling something so affectionate from a woman who had always been anything but, but she swore she could still feel it hours later as her plane lifted off for Brussels.


	8. The Briefing

_Hey all, apologies again for another delay. These chapters are taking a little bit more time because I have to be careful to lay the right groundwork for the rest of the plot, as we'll be getting into JTF-12 and Ian Doyle stuff very soon, and I want it to align more or less with the show. I'll try and get another update in over the weekend. Your feedback has been amazing. I hope you continue to enjoy!_

…

 _Brussels, Belgium_

Twenty minutes dragged by. Then thirty. Emily heard each second tick from the handsome black desk clock which was, in her opinion, unnecessarily loud. She'd no idea what was taking the Assistant Station Chief so long, but if it was much longer, her nails would be bitten down to the cuticles. Emily wasn't able to recall exactly when in the last few years she'd picked up this particularly bad habit, but now it was almost inevitable that intense stress would lead to an all-out self-inflicted assault on her nails. She hadn't been particularly stressed when she first arrived at the Brussels Office and was waived in for her briefing. But the intervening minutes she'd spent waiting gave her time to think, and the more time she had to think, the more she realized that she had no clue what she was getting herself into. She'd never served on a joint task force before. Never worked on any assignment that wasn't entirely or predominantly staffed by U.S. agencies. And Jack Peterson hadn't exactly given her a lot of details on what she'd be doing.

In an attempt to try and take her mind off her anxious uncertainty, she'd subconsciously started taking stock of the Assistant Station Chief's Office and profiling the occupant, who a nameplate identified as "Alan K. Shirer." His mahogany desk was almost completely clear, which mean he was either lazy and did no work, or was a total neat freak. Even the most brilliant of lazy people didn't make Assistant Section Chief, so it had to be the latter. This was further confirmed by the fact that the books on the shelf behind the desk were organized by color, then by size.

This all makes the man's tardiness strange. People this neat don't tolerate lateness, from themselves or from others. This actually makes Emily forgive him for making her wait. He wouldn't be doing it if he didn't have a good reason.

Whatever it was would soon be clear. Shirer arrived at long last, fastidiously dressed in a white Oxford and navy tie, though his slightly-graying, reddish hair was a tad disheveled. He'd definitely been busy.

"Agent Prentiss. Alan Shirer. So sorry to keep you waiting," he said, firmly shaking Emily's hand while holding a stack of files in the other. A slight tic in his square jaw betrayed his irritation with the delay, as did his hurried voice. "In order to brief you I had to be fully briefed myself, and the information I wanted took far too long."

Emily pitied the agents who'd kept him waiting.

"No trouble," Emily insisted.

"May I ask exactly how much you know about this new assignment?" Shirer asked, settling behind his desk.

"I know it involves profiling terrorists, and that's about it. I found out about the whole thing less than 72 hours ago."

"Well, hopefully I can provide a little bit of clarification, though not as much as I'd like because, I think you should know from the outset, you won't be reporting to me, per se. I'm only your Agency contact because the task force is primarily operating from here, but it's not an Agency-led force. SIS and Interpol are taking the lead. An Agent Clyde Easter of SIS will be your team leader."

"So, I'm being pimped out to the Europeans?" Emily had meant it as a joke, but wished she hadn't said anything. Shirer was too straight-laced of a guy to take well to a joke about pimping. Sure enough, his eyebrows shot up and he was looking at her with a mixture of shock, confusion, and mild distaste.

"That's not really how you see it?" he asked. "If you're really opposed, I'm sure we can find you another…"

"No, it's fine, I'm just kidding," Emily assured him. He breathed I sigh of relief. "What do we know about this Easter?"

"Everything we have is summarized in the file," Shirer said, handing Emily one of the manila folders he'd carried into the room. Emily took a glance at the personnel photo. Easter didn't fit the Cambridge stereotype, at least not at first glance. He was handsome, but rugged-looking, his blonde hair not-exactly kempt. But there was a deep intelligence in his blue gaze.

"Short version: He's 44. Standout at Cambridge with top honors in neuropsychology. He was on a medical track, then changed course and went straight into the Royal Marines as an officer. He served with NATO forces in the Balkans where he was decorated for bravery while serving with a special operations force in Bosnia in 1995. He made the transition from the marines to SIS sometime in 1998. We believe MI-6 considers him their top psychological analyst. Rumored to be a bit intense, but highly loyal."

"Skill set and the leadership background," Emily remarked. "I see why he was tapped to head it up."

"He has a fellow Brit on the team," Shirer continued, handing her another folder. "Sean McCallister. Scottish. Top of his glass at St. Andrews. Also a Royal Marine veteran. He went into domestic intelligence with MI5. Specializes in criminal networks – terrorists, mafia, and the like. Made the switch to Interpol in 1996. Easter is the team leader, but McCallister was a major player in putting the idea together. Interpol's pushing for a much bigger role in multinational anti-terrorist intelligence gathering. McCallister's playing a big roll in that. A bit more mysterious than the others, we suspect he's done undercover work in the past but can't confirm."

"Well, a wild card always keeps things interesting at least," she commented, skimming through the particularly thin file.

"Third team member is Tsia Mosely of France. You won't find too much in here because she's the youngest member of the JTF. Two years younger than you. She's an up and coming expert on terrorist recruitment and networking over the Internet. Did her doctoral level work on it at the Sorbonne. She only joined the DCRI about a year ago, so she's green in the field, but considered one of their top minds."

"Finally there's Jeremy Wolff, German BND," Shirer said, giving over the last of the files. "You'll notice we have a little more on him because, like you, he comes from a prominent family. His father is from old Bavarian money and was a deputy finance minister under Chancellor Kohl. Unlike you, or at least unlike what I've heard about you, he very much flaunts it. Not a terrible snob, but seen as a bit haughty."

"Is he a nepotism hire?" Emily asked, concerned. She didn't like the idea of working with somebody who was unqualified, it was too dangerous in this field. On top of that, she had always busted her ass twice as hard as she needed to, lest she face any charge that _she_ was a nepotism hire. All things considered, Emily suspected she hated nepotism twice as much as the average person.

"By all accounts, no," Shirer answered. "He earned a medical degree with honors and was tapped as a top researcher in psychiatric medicine before he decided that he was more interested in criminal pathologies and went into intelligence work. His father probably helped guide him to the right people, but out informants view him as plenty capable. He's just also very much into money. Again, everything I'm telling you and more is in the file. You report to the JTF in two days time. Before your report, study those files, remember as much as you can, and destroy them. Even our allies don't need to know how much we know about their people."

"I assume they'll have similar intelligence on me?"

"As much as I'd like to believe we do a better job protecting our agents than they do, probably yes," Shirer answered. "I know for a fact that they're aware you were profiling terrorists in Afghanistan. We had to share that part of your résumé so they'd be satisfied of your qualifications. But they don't know the specifics of where you were or what precisely you were involved in, and we didn't share any information about your prior assignments. You are not to share any of that information either."

"Understood," Emily acknowledged. "As far as this assignment, what _exactly_ is it that we'll be doing. I'm still not clear on that."

"JTF-12 has two mandates. It is envisioned primarily as a consultative body to assist Europe's domestic agencies. After 9/11, nearly every agency in the West has dramatically increased anti-terrorism operations, but often without a plant to do so effectively. There is a very real concern that valuable time and resources are wasted targeting innocent people while real threats slip through the cracks. That's where the JTF comes in. Already a dozen domestic agencies in Europe have agreed to send JTF information on targets of anti-terrorism surveillance. Your job is to separate the real deal from the imagined threats. Determine who fits the psychological profile of a terrorist or potential terrorist versus who is innocent, or, if not completely innocent, a traditional criminal rather than a terrorist threat. That will allow them to more effectively allocate resources. Secondarily, when you identify legitimate terrorist threats, you may be asked by the host countries to take a larger roll. Host countries will still handle the arrests and prosecutions, but you may be asked to assist in developing takedown strategies, handle interrogations, things like that. It's my understanding that it will be Agent Easter's decision to determine which cases you get more involved with."

Emily was actually starting to like the sound of this assignment. It combined the fast-paced, high-intensity field work that excited her with the more deliberative, mentally-stimulating document intensive analytics that hadn't had the opportunity to do much of since graduate school, and that the nerdy side of her sort of missed. She just had one burning question left.

"So, what are the buts?"

"Come again?"

"The buts," Emily repeated. "I've been in the Agency long enough to know that you aren't going to loan agents to other countries without some stipulations."

"True," Shirer granted her. "There are some restrictions. Mostly the obvious – if any order you receive from JTF conflicts with an order from the CIA, CIA prevails, don't reveal any confidential information we haven't authorized you to disclose, and so on and so forth. We're not going to ask you to tell us everything that goes on with JTF, you're not there to spy on our allies, but we do require that if you stumble on to anything you deem an immediate threat to American security, you pass it on to me immediately. We also don't want you performing any tasks for JTF that you haven't been certified for with the Agency. For example, you're a certified interrogator, so you can perform interrogations with JTF. You aren't a certified explosives expert, so we don't want them to have you checking out bomb fragments. And we reserve the right to veto any assignments that have you embedded in any one location in the field for more than two weeks."

"Sounds reasonable enough, anything else?"

"That's the gist of it," Shirer said. "Now the fun stuff." He picked up the phone on his desk and hit a single button. Emily couldn't make out the sound on the other end, but somebody must have picked up. "This is Shirer, you can send Corelli up now. Thank you," was all he said before hanging up. He then extracted a large yellow envelope from the top drawer of his desk. From the envelope he pulled two sets of keys. He slid the first set across the desk to Emily.

"Your is parked in spot #45 in the underground garage. I know Opels aren't the sexiest car on the market, but we wanted something inconspicuous, and we get bonus points from the brass for dealing with American-owned companies."

Emily couldn't even remember the last time she owned a car. She wasn't about to be too picky.

"I think you'll fine this more to your liking," Shirer slid Emily the second set of keys, which was attached to a small piece of paper with an address.

"You guys swung a loft in the center of the city?" Emily asked, impressed.

"We did. We rent it out through a fictitious company when agents aren't using it. It more than pays for itself. Your utilities and everything will be covered for you. Just don't abuse it. And try now to abuse these either, our accountants are hawks" he said, sliding and envelope and two cards to Emily. One debit card and one credit card in her name, connected to a Belgian bank. "Account information is in the envelope. Deposits are made the first of every month. There's a 100,000 Euro max on the credit card. The tab is picked up for you. Also in the envelope is your cover story. If anybody outside of the Agency of JTF asks, you're here with the U.S. Mission to the European Union as an interpreter and advisor from the Defense Department. The Mission knows this is your cover and knows to contact us if your name comes up. The last thin in the envelope is a phone number. It's a direct line to me in case you get in trouble. You're to memorize and destroy the contents of that envelope as soon as possible."

"Understood," Emily agreed. Posing as a member of a diplomatic mission, if only Mother could see me now, she thought, with gleeful satisfaction.

Two hard taps on the door interrupted the conversation.

"Come in," Shirer answered. A man who looked to be in his late fifties entered the office, holding yet another envelope.

"Ah, Agent Prentiss, meet Ben Corelli. One of our best forgers. He'll have the rest of your documents."

"Nice to meet you, Agent Prentiss," Corelli said. He was soft spoken. "Let me show you what I've made for you."

Corelli pulled out two passports and a smaller ID card. These might have just been "documents" to Shirer, but Emily could tell by the way Corelli gingerly and deliberately laid them out on the desk that they meant much more to him. They were his works of art.

"Two passports. One American, one EU in case you need quicker access at an airport or train station. Obviously you have your own American Passport, but these contain small chips allowing the Agency to track your last known location in case you get in trouble. Nobody who isn't looking for it will know it's there. I've whittled down the difference to these and the genuine article to less than a two millimeter variation in thickness," Corelli said with a quiet pride. Emily had to hand it to him, he had replicated the photo page of her actual passport to a tee. She made a mental note to make sure not to get them mixed up. As far as she could tell, the EU passport was also indistinguishable from the genuine article.

"The ID card is an exact replica of those used by the members of the Mission to the EU," Corelli explained. "No fancy technology in it. It's just in case you need to verify your backstop story. It also works as a handy little diplomatic immunity tool if you get stopped by any traffic cops," he added mischievously.

"Which we prefer you not do," Shirer interjected disapprovingly. "That will be all Corelli."

"These are perfect," Emily told the forger, impressed. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Don't hesitate to ask if you need anything else."

"We won't," Shirer interjected again. Emily distinctly detected dislike, even distrust between the Assistant Station Chief and the forger. "Thank you Corelli."

Corelli gave Emily a small nod and smile and left without acknowledging Shirer.

"I apologize for the awkwardness," Shirer said after satisfied that Corelli was safely away. "Corelli's the best there is, but he and I have clashed over a certain disregard he has for rules."

"Yeah?"

"He was caught a little over a year ago forging fake identities for our Ambassador's sons so they could buy alcohol. Not terribly harmful, but highly embarrassing if you're the one fielding the angry phone call from the Embassy. And it's always concerning to know one of your people is working outside his portfolio, even if it is for youthful hijinks. I'd have fired him if the idea of him working for somebody else didn't scare me so much."

"I see," Emily said. Her first thought was that Corelli must be _really_ good if a guy like Shirer wouldn't fire him for something so brazen. Her second thought was that she wished Corelli'd been around to forge convincing IDs when _she_ was a teenager. She'd been busted more times than she could remember, though she was sure Elizabeth could recount every incident vividly.

"Anyway, I digress," Shirer said. "Everything should be in order now. The car is outside. Directions to the flat are under the seat. On Wednesday at 10 o'clock, you will report to JTF at Number 12 Avenue Auderghem and identify yourself using the EU Mission ID card Corelli gave you. They'll be expecting you. Other than that, memorize and destroy everything as instructed and good luck to you. We'll be checking periodically, and you can always call if you need assistance."

"Thank you, I appreciate it," Emily said, gathering all of her new possessions.

"Good luck, Agent Prentiss."

It was raining and near dark by the time Emily pulled her car out of the underground garage and onto the streets of Brussels. The poor weather and the fact that it was a Monday night meant the streets were largely clear. Emily welcomed this small miracle; it had been almost a year since she'd driven anywhere, and that was back in the States. Within twenty minutes, she'd pulled in front of the latest abode she'd try and convince herself to call home. It was easily the nicest place the Agency had ever put her up in, not a concrete block in Kabul or the bare-bones lodgings in South America were much competition. With two stories, wood floors, full kitchen, and fireplace, the Brussels townhouse was a downright mansion compared to pretty much everywhere else. Somebody had even done a good two weeks' worth of grocery shopping already.

"Damn, I should have tried to get assigned here sooner," Emily muttered to herself. After dragging her suitcase to the second-floor bedroom, Emily made herself a sandwich, started a fire, and began to study the pages of information Shirer had given her. She had a good memory, but it was times like these she wished she was one of those people with an eidetic memory. As it turned out, there wasn't much to memorize. She put the emergency contact number to memory with relative ease, and the files on the other JTF-12 agents didn't contain much useful information to add to what Shirer had already told her. Though she was interested to note that the CIA suspected Clyde Easter had been with British troops in Afghanistan last year. Depending on the timing, he and Emily might have been within miles of one another.

By the time Emily was done re-reading the files for the fifth time, lest she miss any important details, it was well past midnight. Her eyes were bleary with exhaustion. She hadn't had the chance to rest since leaving Germany in the morning. Before turning in for the night, Emily gathered the files that needed to be destroyed, and chucked them into the fire. She stayed awake long enough to make sure every last document was incinerated. By the time the roaring flames at last died to glowing embers, she had collapsed in exhaustion onto the sofa.

…

 _Two Days Later_

Number 12 Auderghem was a well-maintained, but inconspicuous gray building of five stories. It paled in comparison to the British Embassy next door. Nobody who wasn't looking for it would think twice about walking by, which, Emily knew, was precisely the point. She counted at least four surveillance cameras at the front entrance. A slightly faded brass plaque on the door read: "Private Offices of Her Majesty's Government, No Public Admittance" in English, French, and Dutch. Ignoring this very British admonishment, Emily heaved open the rather heavy wooden door and found herself in a small entrance lobby manned by a guard behind what Emily knew was bulletproof glass.

"Excuse me, Miss. You can't be in here," the guard said. If this was where Emily was going to be working, she desperately hoped this wasn't the only security. Visible acne still dotted the face of the gangly guard. The crew cut that was supposed to make him look neat and tough only served to make him seem more insubstantial. Emily would be astonished if he was over 20.

"I have an appointment," Emily said, flashing her fresh ID at the young man. "Emily Prentiss, US Mission to the EU."

The guard's eyes flashed a knowing recognition. Good God, somebody needed to teach this kid a poker face, Emily thought.

"Just a moment please," the guard said. He picked up a telephone received and muttered something indiscernible. The doors to the left of the guard booth sprang open. Two heavily-armed and decidedly _not_ insubstantial guards emerged.

"Come along please," one of them stated, in a thick Northern English accent. His statement wasn't rude, but it wasn't a request either. Emily followed the men into yet another small, barren room.

"You armed?"

"Yes," Emily admitted.

"We're gonna need your weapon."

Emily hesitated for a moment, but it was highly unlikely that two British guards were going to gun her down for no reason. She complied, slowly pulling her gun from the holster concealed under her blazer and handing it over.

"That it?" the second guard asked. Welsh, Emily concluded.

"That's it."

"Spread your arms and legs out please."

Emily tried to resist rolling her eyes as she submitted to an annoyingly thorough pat down. She knew they were looking for more than a weapon.

"I'm not wearing a wire," she insisted.

"I'm sure that's true, but if we took everybody's word for it, we'd be quite foolish, wouldn't we? Especially from somebody who's a trained liar," an amused voice said. While Emily was being manhandled, a third man had entered the room. Emily recognized Clyde Easter instantly. She was surprised by how short the decorated war veteran was, though she could tell that he was muscular underneath his black leather jacket.

"Quite the welcoming committee you have here," Emily quipped, after the guards were apparently satisfied she was telling the truth.

"You can return her weapon," Easter instructed the guards. Emily re-holstered the Glock. 

"We may be allies but we still like to keep our secrets. And you Americans can be notoriously tricky. Don't worry, our French and German friends got the same treatment. I might even do it to my old chum McCallister when he arrives."

Emily didn't need to be a profiler to know this guy was going to be a cocky piece of work, but she also sensed an unmistakable aura of competence, and maybe even a little fun under the rugged exterior. One thing was certain, he could definitely speak fluent sarcasm.

"Pleasure to meet you, Agent Easter," she quipped.

"Likewise, Agent Prentiss. Welcome to JTF-12."


	9. Back in the Field

_Hey all, back with another update. This one is pretty long. Just a quick note, I started putting all of the dialogue that's in a foreign language in Italic font, just to try and keep things straight. Hope you enjoy! Your feedback has been awesome and much appreciated!_

…

 _August 2003_

"You know, Tsia, next time you go home, you should really let all of the police in the banlieues know that not everything that breathes is a terrorist," Emily sighed. Yet again, she flipped to the front of a file and scrawled, "Threat level negligible. Cessation of surveillance recommended." If that were all there was to it, it wouldn't be so bad, but the JTF team were required to write reports on all of their consults. Emily wasn't exactly relishing the prospect of having to justify to French police why an 80-year-old, half-blind man was probably not a terrorist threat.

"I know, I know," Tsia muttered at the desk to Emily's left. Emily could tell by the way the French agent was running her hands through her dark curls that she, too, was working on a dud of a consult. "As soon as the floodgates opened every suspicion they've ever had of North Africans came spilling out. This is crazy."

"It's probably the same in the States," Emily admitted. "I just don't have the misfortune of dealing with it."

"Jeremy, you look far too interested over there. Did you actually catch a legitimate case?" Emily asked.

"Maybe," he said seriously, with a slight air of haughtiness "but only because I stopped working out of my French pile. The German police are much less likely to waste time."

Emily rolled her eyes, but didn't argue. It was probably true. Unfortunately, not being a German speaker, she couldn't work out of the "German pile." Clyde assigned the agents to consult rotations based on fluency in a given language. All five JTF team members worked on the French and English language consults. Emily also split Spanish police files with Tsia, Italian with Sean, and took on occasional Arabic document translating duties with Clyde. Jeremy had German to himself and split Turkish with Clyde. Sean was able to take Russian cases. Everything else had to be translated, which could severely throw off the profile.

A few minutes later, Jeremy closed his file with satisfaction. "Anyone for a little beer and dinner?"

"Definitely," Tsia grinned. "Emily?"

Emily glanced at her watch. She hadn't realized it was already pushing 7:30 in the evening. She hesitated. She _was_ hungry, but thought it wise to stay back.

"You two go ahead, I'm going to try and finish some more reports. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Aww, come on Emily. You're missing out!" Tsia insisted.

"Nah, I'm good. You guys have fun."

"Suit yourself," Jeremy shrugged. "Good night, Emily." Emily couldn't help but notice Jeremy wasn't trying too hard to get her to come along. She also noticed that Jeremy was guiding Tsia gently with his hand at her back. It was clear that they were falling for one another. They were doing a terrible job concealing it, particularly given that they were working on a team of profilers. Emily didn't think work relationships were a particularly good idea. She wasn't about to rat them out to Clyde, but she also had no desire to be the awkward third wheel at dinner. Besides, she really did want to get some work done. Emily liked Clyde, but he could be a hard taskmaster, so she preferred to always be a little ahead on her consults.

She dove in to writing up the reports on her latest round of file reviews. Most of them were simple enough—the vast majority of the cases she reviewed presented little to no real threat of terrorist activity. But a few of the cases she'd reviewed out of Spain that day had raised some red flags. She started with those reports, detailing the warning signs and suggesting the next steps for Spanish police to take in order to get a more comprehensive profile. Soon enough, she was so engrossed in the work that she again lost track of time.

"Bloody hell, Emily. Why are you still here?" Clyde asked, emerging from his office around nine o'clock.

"Huh?" Emily asked, a bit dazed with exhaustion. "Oh, sorry, just catching up."

"You don't need to catch up, you're well ahead of everyone else. I take it Tsia and Jeremy are off on a date?" Clyde commented.

"So you've noticed too?"

"Of course I've noticed, those two are about as subtle as an Elton John concert," Clyde snorted. Emily momentarily entertained herself with the image of the tough, brusque Clyde at an Elton John concert. She nearly had to bit her tongue to keep from laughing.

"Regardless, I'm glad you're still here. I wanted to ask you about something. Come into the office for a moment."

Emily followed Clyde into his office. It was hardly an upgrade over the open desks outside. It was dark, no window. And small. But Clyde didn't seem to need much. There was a large pile of files on his desk, but other than his computer, there was nothing else. No pictures. No mementos. Apparently he wasn't _all_ business, though. He pulled a bottle and pair of glasses out from a desk drawer.

"Scotch?" he asked.

"Why not?" Emily agreed.

He poured each of them a pretty generous portion of Scotch. It required a gargantuan effort for Emily not to wince at the burn. Whatever Clyde was drinking, it was potent stuff.

"So," Clyde inquired, leaning heavily at Emily over the desk, "how is your leg?"

Emily's eyes narrowed. Her injury and history in Afghanistan was supposed to be known only to the CIA. "How do you know about that?"

"It's my business to know," Clyde dismissed. "How is it?"

"It's fine," Emily insisted.

Clyde's expression remained unmoved. Emily could tell he didn't quite believe her.

"It's not bad. And it's not going to give out," Emily said truthfully. The site of the broken bones still kept her up late some nights, but she'd still been running regularly and the aches seemed to be improving with time.

"Are you up for a field assignment?" Clyde asked.

"I would like that," Emily agreed readily. This was an understatement. She'd _love_ to finally get out in the field again. The monotony of file reviews had become nearly unbearable.

"Police in the south of France have requested our assistance in the apprehension of an Al-Qaeda affiliate in Marseilles, a Nasir Khadir. An Algerian immigrant"

"You mean the French actually found a _real_ terrorist?" Emily asked, not sure whether to be suspicious or impressed.

"It seems so, yes," Clyde answered. "I suppose they were bound to stumble on the real thing eventually."

"Who did the profile?"

"We didn't do a consult on this case. They connected Khadir to Al-Qaeda through computer records. He's made financial contributions online. After further investigation the police have found attack plans proposing to detonate bombs in crowded areas of the city."

"Well, if the have him nailed to the wall, what do they need us for? And why are you sending me instead of Tsia? It's her country and her mother is North African. She'll have better insight," Emily pointed out. She didn't always press her superiors like this, but, while Clyde definitely had flaws, he never seemed to mind reasonable questions.

"The police in this area don't have much training in dealing with this sort of terrorist ideology yet. They've requested assistance in interrogation and also would like someone present at the arrest raid in case there is a standoff or hostage situation. The captain in charge thinks it would be useful to have someone more familiar with the psychology available to assist in negotiations, and I agree with him," Clyde explained.

"And I am sending Tsia," he continued. "But she's incredibly green in the field. I want someone more experienced with her for now. You're much more experienced. And, much as I hate to admit it, you speak the best French out of the rest of us."

She wasn't one to gloat, but Clyde wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know.

"Alright, I'm all in. When is this going down?"

"Tomorrow at sundown. I'll brief you and Tsia tomorrow, you'll be in Marseilles by late afternoon."

"That's a quick turn around," Emily observed.

"It is. But if he's planning attacks, we can't really ask them to wait."

"No, we can't," Emily agreed.

"The police will handle the bulk of it, the apprehension and arrest is all their prerogative. You'll just be there as support. And let Tsia handle the bulk of it, it will be good experience for her. I just need to know you'll have her back."

"I will."

…

Just over twelve hours later, Emily was gazing out the jet at the winding French country roads snaking through the hills below. In the distance, she could see the peaks of the French Alps, still dusted with a light residue of snow even in the height of summer. Memories from decades past flooded over her. She could smell the cold, clear air. See the flickering of the candlelight over the stone floor. Taste the rich dark hot chocolate poured into her mug. Feel the scratchy but strangely comforting bristles of her grandfather's beard.

"Having a flashback?" a woman's voice pulled Emily back into the present. She hadn't heard Tsia return from the lavatory. She scolded herself internally for dropping her guard in front of another profiler. Tsia could probably read her like an open book. Emily didn't think there was any harm in this. She'd already decided that Tsia was trustworthy, a determination she hadn't yet reached about any of her other new colleagues, though she generally felt pretty comfortable around Clyde. Sean was too quiet and Jeremy too aloof for Emily to get a good read on. Though Emily suspected the others probably felt the same way about her, and quite frankly, she preferred it that way.

"Kind of, yeah," Emily answered Tsia. Just thinking of some stuff from when I was a kid.

"I thought you lived in Paris when you were in France as a kid?"

Emily shot Tsia a puzzled look. She couldn't recall ever sharing that information with anyone at JTF.

"Oh come on, Emily. Don't pretend the CIA didn't give you background information on everyone else on the team when you were assigned. You think rest of our agencies didn't do the same thing?"

"I just didn't think DGSE would be terribly interested in what I was doing when I was ten."

"Your childhood was the easiest part to research. Same for Jeremy. You're both politicians' kids. If it makes you feel any better, we mostly drew blanks when it comes to your more recent history."

"Actually, it does," Emily admitted, assuming Tsia was telling the truth. Emily had lost a bit of confidence in the Agency's ability to keep her secrets ever since her parents barged into her hospital room. But she supposed she really _couldn't_ expect them to keep her upbringing a secret. It wouldn't take much research to connect Emily to Elizabeth Prentiss, from there it would just be a matter of tracking the Ambassador's career. "I did live in Paris with my Mother. But my Grandfather had a house in the Alps. He lived completely off the land for years. No car. No electricity. And he had money, he just didn't see much use in it. I used to visit him for weeks at a time when I wasn't in school."

"Must have felt like living in another century," Tsia said.

It had, Emily recalled. Her Grandfather's house had always been a wonderful escape, not just from the modern world, but from reality itself. From an overbearing but still distant mother. An affectionate but oft-absent father. From the crushing weight of expectation that came with being a Prentiss. Papa had taught her to skip a rock, start a fire, walk in snow shoes. He was also the reason Emily was so adept at French. He would refuse to speak with her in English, abiding patiently until she found the right words. " _You'll never learn_ _if I let you give up_ ," he would tell her. His lessons paid off. Emily received significant formal training in the French school she attended, but she was naturally conversant because of her Papa's teaching.

"It was definitely quite the experience," Emily said. She didn't feel much like divulging the more personal details.

"Is he still around?" Tsia asked.

"No, he died when I was in college. Though I guess if you want to get technical, he is still around. His ashes are scattered down there somewhere."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked," Tsia said sincerely.

"No, it's alright. He lived a full life. He was the most content man I've ever known."

"My grandfather loved the Alps too," Tsia divulged. "My mother remembers seeing him cry when he first saw the peaks on the plane over from Tunisia. It was the first he ever saw of France, it was how he knew they made it."

"He'd be furious at this," she added in disgust, pointing at the files on the table between their seats. "Coming to France just to turn into a terrorist."

"If that's what happened," Emily said.

"What do you mean?"

"I've been thinking. Something just doesn't add up. I mean, what do we know about this guy? _Actually_ know?"

"Nasir Khadir. Forty-eight years old," Tsia recited. "Immigrated from Algeria in 1980. Married. Two daughters, 27 and 25, and a son, 21. Attends Mosque regularly. Works as a stocker in a grocery store."

"None this raises any red flags to me," Emily said. "If anything it would be the opposite. Immigrants rarely engage in terrorism against their adopted countries. It's somewhere they chose to make their home. And according to these employment records, this guy is constantly working extra shifts. Where's he getting the time to draw up attacks?"

"Yeah, but what about the record trail?" Tsia said. "The online contributions to the Al-Qaeda affiliated funds and messages about attack plans?"

"Even that doesn't fit." Emily said. "You're the expert in internet communications. If you viewed these messages in a vacuum, without knowing the identity of the suspect, what profile would you give?"

Tsia thought for a moment.

"Young male. Twenties, maybe late teens. Isolated and angry. And some of these sites and chat rooms are buried deep on what's called the 'dark web.' He would have to know his way around the Internet very well. Probably spend a lot of time setting up the right software searching for the right networks and sites."

"It doesn't fit Khadir at all," Emily re-emphasized.

"The son," Tsia realized.

"It would make a lot more sense," Emily agreed. "Immigrants rarely turn against their new countries, but first-generation is a lot more complicated. If they feel marginalized and rejected in a society that is supposed to be their home, that can spark a lot of anger, and there's a whole tinderbox of well-organized networks with sophisticated propaganda ready to capitalize. And it's not like this would be the first time a young person got up to no good with their parent's bank card."

"We have to tell the police as soon as we land," Tsia concluded hurriedly.

"We're going to get some pushback. They've been working this case awhile, they won't like being called into question by newcomers to the scene."

"They'll have to get over it. We can't _not_ tell them," Tsia insisted.

"No, you're right. We can't."

Less than an hour later the jet touched down and Emily arrived in her beloved second home country for the first time in years. She sorely hoped she would have time later to enjoy a good French coffee, but that wasn't about to happen now. The leader of the police unit they were advising was already waiting on the tarmac.

" _Hello, you must be Agent Mosley and Agent Prentiss_. _I'm Captain Laurent, in charge of this investigation_ ," the man said in rapid French. " _I wish I could give you a warmer welcome, but we don't have very much time. The raid is scheduled for just over three hours from now. We'll get you to the station and brief you on the operation, and then we go. If everything goes right, we won't need you until interrogation, but we would like you present for the raid in case any negotiation assistance is needed._ "

He was striding hurriedly toward a waiting car as he spoke. Emily and Tsia nearly had to jog to keep up, the captain had a good eight inches on them.

" _Captain_ ," Tsia said, interrupting his monologue, " _we understand you are on a tight schedule, but we have some concerns about this operation_."

" _And what would those be?_ " the Laurent asked, as he ducked into the passenger seat. Emily and Tsia took seats in the back and the driver sped off from the airfield with sirens blaring. Emily didn't like the tone of Laurent's question one bit. He wasn't going to take well to an eleventh-hour challenge to his plan.

" _We believe you have the wrong suspect in Monsieur Khadir. The behavior and sophistication with internet use suggest a much younger culprit. Khadir's son is a far likelier suspect._ "

Laurent whipped his head around and stared at Tsia, his eyebrows arched nearly all the way into his dark but slightly greying hair.

" _You are serious?_ " he demanded.

" _Absolutely_ ," Tsia answered. " _Nasir Khadir's age and behavior just don't fit at all_."

Laurent shifted his intense gaze to Emily. " _You agree with this_?"

" _Yes, I do_."

" _Incredible,_ " Laurent muttered, highly annoyed. " _You think we didn't think to find out about all of the family members? Mehmet Khadir went to Paris to attend university two years ago. So unless you would like to explain to me how and why he is running all of his transactions from a computer in Marseilles while he's in Paris…_ "

" _You're sure he's still in Paris?_ " Emily pressed.

" _We interviewed friends and neighbors. Nobody has seen him_."

It took ounce of self-control for Emily not to roll her eyes into the back of her head. But even she couldn't fully control her bewildered expression. Nor could Tsia, who was staring at Laurent with blank incredulity.

" _What's the problem?_ " he asked.

Normally, Emily didn't like to question or criticize local law enforcement, maintaining a cooperative relationship was too important, but with the planned raid just hours away, there wasn't much time for niceties. Even if Emily had been inclined to hold her tongue, it wouldn't have mattered. Tsia beat her to the punch.

" _People in these communities have been treated like criminals and presumptive terrorists for years, you really think they're going to provide honest information to the police?_ "

Laurent responded defensively.

" _I can't speak for what my friends in other district or cities are doing_ ," he seethed, " _but I resent your accusation. I make every effort to be fair_."

" _I don't doubt that's the case, but you have to understand the perception_ ," Emily reasoned, trying to calm the situation. " _If there's fear or mistrust, justified or not, people are not going to want to cooperate with the police._ "

" _Suppose you are right_ ," Laurent sighed. Emily could tell he was still skeptical, but no longer ruling out the possibility that she Tsia may be right. " _What difference does it make? Either way, we know there is somebody in that apartment supporting terrorism and planning attacks._ "

Emily thought this was a fair point.

" _How does it change anything_?" Laurent continued to press.

" _It might change the response to your presence,_ " Emily explained. " _If it is the son, he's more likely to fight, possibly to the death. Young people tend to be more self-destructive when confronted and to respond more violently in general_."

" _And you think we haven't already prepared for that possibility? We always plan for a possible violent response, but the whole point is to take them by surprise anyway. The operation is highly confident, we're doing it at night, and we'll approach quietly. Nobody should even know we're there until we enter the apartment building. That, at best, gives them fifteen seconds. We take everyone in the apartment into custody and then you can help us sort things out. If you're right and the father is innocent, we let him go._ "

While it was less than ideal to go in without clear knowledge of a suspect, Emily again had to concede that Laurent had a point. If the police had prepared as thoroughly as Laurent claimed, the new profile wouldn't really change tactical considerations. The raid was still a go.

" _Alright_ ," Emily agreed, as if she really had any choice. " _So brief us on this raid_."

" _We're arriving at the station momentarily_ ," Laurent said. " _When we get there, my men will tell you everything you need to know_."

…

Just a few hours later, Emily and Tsia were again in the back of a vehicle piloted by a French police officer with Captain Laurent riding shotgun. As Emily re-adjusted the straps on her bulletproof vest, Tsia was pouring anxiously over schematics of the apartment building. It was Tsia's first raid, and Emily could recognize the telltale signs of anxiety, the pouring over every minor detail.

" _Tsia, you'll be fine_ ," Emily assured her. " _Just follow the group_." The plan was actually relatively simple, relying heavily on surprise and speed. The Khadirs lived in an apartment on the third floor of a public housing building with three staircases. The tactical team was divided into four small groups. One group would take each staircase and converge together on the apartment. Group four would stay behind to secure the vehicles against any unfriendly reaction from other residents. Emily and Tsia were to joint Laurent in following group three up the east staircase and standby in case any negotiation proved necessary.

Laurent had smartly opted for a quiet approach. The fleet of police vehicles initially left the station with sirens running, sending the Marseilles streetscapes flying by. As they drew closer to the housing complex, the officers killed the sirens and slowed significantly. The arrival was executed in admirable near-silence. In fact, the scene at their arrival was too quiet.

" _It's only 8:30 on a Friday_ ," Emily whispered to Laurent. " _Why aren't there any people around_?"

Emily had barely gotten her question out when the rapid sound of shattering glass and automatic gunfire pierced the air. Emily and Laurent instinctively ducked behind the vehicle for protection. The driver wasn't as lucky. Emily winced as he collapsed to ground, blood flooding profusely from his neck. Next to the driver was a scene that made Emily's heart stop: Tsia, wide-eyed and frozen, in the line of fire.

" _Tsia, get down!_ " Emily screamed. But it was no use. Her partner was paralyzed. Without another second of hesitation, Emily came out of her crouching position, grabbed Tsia's vest, and yanked her as hard as possible toward the shielded side of the vehicle. It wasn't the most graceful sight; Tsia fell off balance, sending both agents toppling to the ground. Luckily, they fell to safety, and not a moment too soon. Emily could hear bullets whizzing above, roughly where their heads had been a few seconds ago. Rolling off her back and onto her feet, she noticed Tsia was down on all fours, breathing shakily.

" _Tsia. Tsia! Are you alright?_ "

" _Wha…yeah. Yeah_ ," Tsia said, shaking her head vigorously as if to clear it. She might be responding to the question, but she still wasn't fully paying attention. Her gaze was still fixed on the fallen driver, whose body remained visible even from their safe vantage point.

" _Tsia, look at me_ ," Emily demanded calmly. Slowly, Tsia complied. " _He's gone_. _There's nothing we can do_."

Tsia nodded feebly. Satisfied that her partner was safe, if still shaken, Emily turned her attention to Laurent, who was frantically shouting instructions into a radio.

" _There's no safe retreat. Closest units advance as soon as he stops to reload. You'll be safer once inside!_ " he cried.

" _Somebody sold you out,_ " Emily told him. " _Whoever the shooter is was waiting for us_."

" _I know. I know._ " Laurent agreed. " _We need to get through this and then I will tear this department apart_. _We're parked too far away to safely make it all the way to the building when he reloads, but there's a line of vehicles parked closer. When the shooting stops we advance to those._ "

Emily nodded in agreement. " _You better tell the guys ahead of us to proceed with some caution, it's not out of the question for this to end with a suicide bomb,_ " Emily told him. As Laurent relayed this advice to the units ahead, Emily checked again on her partner. " _Tsia, are you ready?_ "

" _Yes,_ " came a soft, but fairly steady answer. The three of them remained crouched against the vehicle for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a minute before the shooting stopped.

" _Go! Go! Go!_ " Laurent yelled. Moving as quickly as she could while still keeping a side-eye on Tsia, Emily followed Laurent to the closer line of vehicles. They made it with about ten seconds to spare before the assault resumed. Based on the shouting that Emily could hear over Laurent's radio, the forward group had made it successfully into the building. Sure enough, after about ten seconds, the assailant was no longer shooting out the window, but a gunfight commenced inside the building itself. After another thirty seconds, the gunshots stopped, and only shouting could be heard over the radio, mostly in French, but some, Emily noticed, in Arabic.

" _Target down, area secured_ ," an officer's voice finally announced.

" _We're on our way_ ," Laurent responded.

Drawing her Glock as a precaution, Emily followed Laurent into the building with Tsia in tow. As they reached the third floor landing, the found a number of other residents peaking out into the hallway. Some looked confused, some frightened, others downright hostile.

" _Clear the hallway. Inside, now!_ " Laurent demanded.

Emily repeated the command in Arabic, though with considerably less edge. It was dangerous to further alienate anybody while they were still in the building.

The site inside the Khadir apartment was a grizzly one. The police hadn't spared any bullets in taking down the assailant. Despite a severe amount of damage to the body, it was clear he was a young man. Two other inhabitants of the apartment were crouched against the wall of a small kitchnette. A middle-aged woman sobbing into the arms of a distraught-looking man – Nasir Khadir and his wife.

" _Well, it looks like you were right about the son,_ " Laurent said bitterly. " _Looks like we won't be getting any answers out of him_. _Now I have a dead officer – for nothing_."

" _Not for nothing_ ," Tsia contradicted him, Emily noticed that Tsia had regained herself considerably, though she was determinedly looking away from Mehmet Khadir's body. " _It was way too empty and quiet when we got here. Other people in this building knew_."

" _Whoever it was, it wasn't them_ ," Emily said, nodding over at the couple huddled together. " _Look at them, they're terrified_."

" _What a disaster. We have to find the collaborators in this neighborhood and the traitor in my department_ ," Laurent sighed, registering the weight of his mammoth task. " _I know we didn't get off to the best of starts, and I apologize, but I would very much appreciate any assistance you can give_."

" _We're only supposed to be staying through tonight, but I'm sure we can get more time, given the circumstances. I need to call our chief to update him, so I will ask him_."

Emily wanted to be out of earshot when she talked to Clyde, so she made her way back outside, acutely aware of hostile stares from some of those still lingering in the hallway. She kept her hand on her weapon, just in case, but nobody bothered her. The scene outside was equally chaotic. A team of crime scene medics was busy collecting the body of the slain officer while his grim faced comrades kept watch. Emily walked off several paces before placing her call.

"About time, I was starting to think you were never going to call," Clyde answered. "How'd it go?"

"Not too good," Emily answered, admittedly a huge understatement.

"Did they capture Khadir?"

"If by Khadir you mean Nasir Khadir's son Mehmet and if by capture you mean shot to bits, then yes."

"They killed him? What the hell good does that do?"

"They had to, Clyde," Emily explained. "He knew we were coming and shot the place up as soon as we got here. One of the officers is dead."

"Christ. How'd Tsia handle it?"

Emily hesitated. She didn't want to throw Tsia under the bus – she'd had a very understandable first time reaction. On the other hand, Clyde had a perfect right and need to know the strengths and weaknesses of his team.

"She still has some adjusting to do," Emily finally settled. "Look, they have a real problem here. Khadir was not acting without support and there is definitely a mole somewhere in the police department. I think we should stay on a few days and help them out."

"Normally, I'd agree, but I can't right now. I need you back here tomorrow."

"What? Clyde, did you not hear what I just said?" Emily asked, astonished. Surely he couldn't think that writing piles of reports took precedence.

"I heard you loud and clear darling, but I need you back here," Clyde insisted. "Sean wants us to take over a major case from Interpol. We're going to need all hands on deck for Operation Valhalla."


	10. Operation Valhalla

_Hey all. Apologies for the late update. I went on vacation before I was able to finish this chapter. Should be back on track now. Again, quick reminder that all of the dialogue in italics is stuff said in a foreign language (French in this chapter). That's it for now. Hope you enjoy!_

…

Emily ended the call with Clyde in frustration. Whatever this Operation Valhalla was better be damn important, because the police in Marseille had a complete mess on their hands. Emily was bitterly disappointed that she and Tsia weren't going to be able to help them out.

The sounds of footsteps crunching on shattered glass behind her announced Tsia's arrival.

" _What did Clyde have to say_?"

" _He still wants us back tomorrow_ ," Emily relayed.

" _What? Why?"_

" _Something about an Operation Valhalla,_ " Emily said. " _Some case Sean's bringing from Interpol. Clyde wants everyone there._ "

" _What the hell is Operation Valhalla?_ "

" _Clyde wouldn't tell me over the phone,_ " Emily said, shrugging to signify that she was just as baffled and irritated as Tsia apparently was. " _Guess we'll find out tomorrow_."

" _This is ridiculous_."

" _I better go break the news to Laurent_ ," Emily sighed. " _I'll be right back_." She re-entered the grimy public housing block. Judging by the fact that the hallways were now completely empty, the police had evidently succeeded at last in forcing the residents all inside. She could make out snippets of loud chatter from inside some of the units. Emily seriously doubted anybody in the building was going to get any sleep that evening.

Inside the Khadir's unit, things were still frantic. Officers were confiscating the family computer, flitting through desk drawers, grabbing anything that might be of interest. A crime scene team was meticulously photographing Mehmet Khadir's body. In the midst of it all stood Laurent, giving confident direction to every officer who wasn't already engaged in some task or another. Emily couldn't help but admire the Frenchman. While his officers had taken down their main target, the entire raid had been borderline disastrous. The knowledge of a dead officer and a mole in the ranks would have overwhelmed many.

" _Did you speak to your chief?_ " Laurent inquired, after he'd finished issuing orders to the remaining officers.

" _I did. Unfortunately he's still ordering us back tomorrow. I explained the situation, but he's insistent,_ " Emily offered, apologetically.

" _That's too bad._ " Laurent lamented.

" _We're yours for the rest of the night_ ," Emily offered. " _What can we do for you? Interviews? Interrogations? Anything_?"

Laurent shook his head.

" _I don't think so. The Khadirs aren't in any state to speak right now. We moved them to another room away from this. Waiting on a grief counselor. Eventually I'll want to interview everyone in my department and every person in this complex. But it's going to take time to process everything and figure out where to start. I'll have a car come and take you to your hotel. You can stop at the station along the way to pick up your things._ _I will pick you up in the morning to take you to the airfield_."

" _I'm sorry we couldn't be of more help_."

" _As far as I'm concerned, you have nothing to apologize for. You've been nothing but right this evening. Is your partner alright?_ "

" _Yeah, she'll be fine. Just a little new to this_ ," Emily explained.

" _Understandable. Well, I hope you both can have a restful night. I'll see you in the morning._ "

The hotel wasn't terribly far from the police station. By the time they arrived to check-in, the night was still young enough that plenty of Friday night revelers remained in the streets. Emily was pleased to see that they had been booked into a mid-size place that was locally owned. The kind that still used actual door keys and would have an ample breakfast spread inside a cozy tea room. In her opinion, this was how all European hotels should be. The key cards and plastic cereal dispensers could stay in the States.

"You going straight to bed?" Emily asked Tsia as they trudged up the staircase to their second-floor rooms.

"Yeah, aren't you?"

"I think I might go for a walk," Emily mused.

"By yourself? At this hour?"

"I have a gun," Emily reminded her.

"Suit yourself," Tsia said. "I'm exhausted."

"Get some sleep then," Emily said, as they reached their rooms at the end of the hallway. Emily had to fiddle with the key a bit before she finally got the door to unlock. She was halfway in the door before Tsia stopped her.

"Hey, Emily."

"Yeah?" Emily said, poking her head back out.

"I, uh. I don't really know how to put this. So…thank you. You saved my life."

"That's what we're there for, to have each other's backs," Emily said. She didn't want Tsia dwelling on it too much.

"You could have been shot."

"But I wasn't."

"No, but…"

"Tsia," Emily interrupted. "It's the job. I know what I signed up for."

"I just…I froze.

Emily noticed that Tsia wasn't making eye contact anymore. Her gaze had dropped to the faded rose-patterned carpet lining the hall.

"Hey," Emily said, willing Tsia to look at her again. "It was your first time. You had a natural reaction. And you recovered to make some good observations. Stop beating yourself up. It's all good."

"Yeah," Tsia said softly. "Alright. Good night Emily."

"Good night."

Satisfied that Tsia was doing as well as could realistically be expected, Emily retired to her room. It was simply furnished. A small bed, made up with several layers of white blankets that Emily doubted she would need on this summer evening, an armchair, also white, and a small wooden writing desk with a single drawer and desk lamp. She didn't spend too much time surveying the room. Tossing her suitcase on the bed, she grabbed a handful of Euro notes and her hotel keys, made sure her firearm was still concealed under her shirt, and headed back out into the French night.

A strong but pleasantly warm Mediterranean breeze wafted through the streets. Emily wished ruefully that she could spend the rest of the weekend on the coast. She had half a mind to find an ATM and abscond to Monte Carlo for a few days. Instead she kept wandering the streets, observing several young, carefree (and often drunk) passersby with a mix of amusement and envy. In one case she determinedly avoided staring in the direction of a young couple who were all but fornicating down a side street. After a few minutes, she at last found what she was looking for—a small café still open for late-night business. The storefront didn't necessarily look appealing. The narrow stone façade was cracked in some places and graffiti-marked in others, but Emily knew from long experience that such places were often the best place to score a strong late-night coffee.

Inside, a few lingering patrons were sitting an eclectic yet endearing assortment of mismatched tables. Behind the counter stood a short, stooping Frenchman who had to be at least 70, but was wearing a broad grin. Emily marveled that he had the energy at his age to be working this late.

" _Mademoiselle, what can I do for you this evening_?" the man asked, his brown eyes twinkling. Emily grinned, well aware that she was verging on too old to be addressed as "Mademoiselle."

" _I'd like a café au lait, please_."

" _Ah,_ " the man shook his head, with mock disapproval. " _That will keep you up all night, at this hour_."

" _I'm counting on it_ ," Emily teased, though it wasn't untrue.

" _Ah, is Mademoiselle up to something tonight_?"

" _I couldn't possibly say_ ," she answered mischievously.

" _I take it you would like this to go then_ ," the man laughed knowingly as he made up Emily's coffee. Ideally, Emily would have the luxury of sitting out at a table on the street and sipping from a mug, but this wasn't too terrible a substitute. The coffee was still rich, warm, and satisfying. Emily submitted to one last flirtatious wink from the old man before returning to the midnight streets. She was indeed "up to something," but nothing so fun or scandalous as the old man had implied.

Coffee in hand, she returned to the hotel, entering her room as quietly as possible so as not to wake Tsia or any of her other neighbors for the night. Flicking on the lights, Emily sat at the writing desk. In the wobbly drawer, she found a handful of pens and some hotel stationary. Things would be a lot faster if she had a laptop, but she had to make do with what she had.

Uncapping one of the pens, Emily began writing. Aside from a few moments when she paused to think, Emily wrote frantically. Her hand flew across the paper so rapidly that she soon had a cramp in her palm and ink stains on her fingers. She continued for hours, fueled only by her late-night caffeine and a determination to finish her task before morning. At last, around 4 a.m., she finished. She was sure it wasn't her best work, but it was the best she could do in the circumstances. It was time to throw in the towel and get some sleep.

She was sprawled out spread-eagle on the bed when a rapping on the hotel door ripped her from her sleep.

"Emily, Emily. Are you alright in there? Wake up," Tsia's voice floated from the hallway.

Emily squinted at the bedside clock and grunted. How could it be 7:30 already? She had just closed her eyes.

"I'm up. I'm up," she shouted groggily. Anything to stop the knocking. Pushing stray strands of her brown hair out of her face, she stumbled to the door and threw it open.

"Jesus, you look like crap," Tsia said. "When did you go to bed?"

"Late."

"What is that?" Tsia said, noticing the handwritten pages scattered on the floor. They must have fallen off the desk during the night.

"P...puh…profile," Emily yawned.

"Profile? For what?"

"I'll explain later. Breakfast first." Emily insisted. She was famished, and in terrible need of caffeine.

"Okay."

Furiously trying to rub the sleep from her eyes, she followed Tsia downstairs to the breakfast room. A few patrons were already breakfasting and conversing in hushed French. Emily hardly spoke before consuming a croissant, two eggs, and about a liter of coffee.

"Better?" Tsia asked.

"Significantly," Emily agreed.

"So," Tsia said in a hushed voice. "What's with this profile?"

"I'm just so pissed off that we can't stay and help. So I wrote everything I could think that might help the police profile the mole and find co-conspirators in the apartment block."

"You did all that last night?" Tsia stared.

"It's really general. It probably won't help," Emily dismissed. "But it's _something_ I felt like I could do."

"You're insane, you know that?"

"Oh, I've known that for years," Emily agreed, downing yet another cup of coffee.

The two agents finished their breakfast, packed up their rooms, and checked out just in time to meet Laurent curbside for their lift to the airfield.

" _Good morning_ ," he greeted them glumly. " _You look like shit_ ," he added to Emily. She laughed wryly at his bluntness and returned some in kind.

" _Not as bad as you. But I have a present for you_ ," she said, handing over her crude work product.

" _What is this_?" the captain inquired.

" _It's a psychological profile_ ," Emily explained. " _Two actually. One has the characteristics you should be looking for in your mole. The other has what you should be looking for in Khadir's neighbors and friends_."

" _You think this will help?_ " Laurent asked, flitting through the pages.

" _Maybe. I honestly have no idea. It's the best I could come up with in the time_."

" _Well, I'll certainly take a look at it_ ," Laurent said. " _But if I don't get you to the airfield now your departure will be delayed. I don't want to get you in trouble with your chief_."

Emily stared ruefully at the passing Marseille landscape on the way to the airfield. It seemed to be a shame to leave France on such a beautiful day. She made a mental note to add the southern coast to her list of potential destinations for her next vacation. If, in fact, she ever got another vacation.

They arrived at the airfield with only minutes to spare. Laurent gallantly though unnecessarily helped them load their paltry luggage and they bade their farewells.

" _I know it all seems less than ideal, but I truly do appreciate your assistance,_ " he informed them. " _Thank you_."

" _I hope that profile helps some_ ," Emily said. " _I can't exactly hand out business cards, but you know how to contact our team if you have any questions_."

" _I do. And thank you. Have a safe flight._ "

By the time Emily settled into one of the private jet's plush leather seat and buckled herself in, the temporary boost she'd gained from her rapid coffee consumption had worn off. She was asleep before the plane left the tarmac. She managed a halfway decent slumber before the thud of wheels on runway jolted her awake as the plane landed in Brussels.

"We're back already?" Emily grumbled.

"Afraid so," Tsia said, sympathetically. "I'd tell you to skip out on the rest of the day and go straight home, but I don't think that's going to be possible. Look who's picking us up."

Emily followed Tsia's gaze out the window and saw that none other than Clyde himself had come to meet them at the small private airport. He must be really urgent to get started on the new case if he was going out of his way to drive Tsia and Emily back to the office.

"Great," Emily sighed. "Going to be one hell of a day."

Slinging their travel bags over their shoulders, Emily and Tsia deboarded. Emily fumble to throw on a pair of sunglasses and shield her half-closed eyes from the unwelcome late morning sun.

"Welcome back," Clyde said with sarcastic cheeriness. He gamely took Emily and Tsia's bags and loaded them into the back of the waiting car. "I heard one of you had quite the late night fun." He glanced knowingly at Emily.

"Shut up, Clyde," moaned, laying out across the back seat as Tsia took the front.

"Manners, Darling," Clyde admonished, as he got behind the wheel. "And actually, you may be pleased to know that I just finished speaking to one Captain Laurent, and your midnight toils paid off."

"What? Already? How?"

"I'll explain after you sit up and put your seatbelt on."

"Clyde, I'm tired," Emily protested.

"I don't care, I don't want to have to ask the CIA for a new agent if you go flying through the windshield."

"I thought you were a good driver," Emily groaned, complying nonetheless.

"I am. Never said anything about being a safe driver, though," he quipped. Speeding off at an unnecessary rate to underscore the point. Tsia chuckled. Emily shot them both a dirty look in the rearview mirror.

After taunting Emily with a few more seconds of purposely erratic driving, Clyde slowed down to a more reasonable pace and updated Emily on the details of his phone call with Captain Laurent. The French police were still searching for co-conspirators in the apartment building, and expected that investigation to take some time, even with Emily's profile. On the other hand, Laurent had already found the mole within his ranks. Emily's profile enabled the captain to promptly narrow his investigation to three suspects. Luckily, the mole hadn't been particularly careful. A search of the three officer's phones led to the immediate arrest of a third-year patrolman. Laurent expected to have the man charged by the end of the day.

"He's lucky the mole was so sloppy," Emily observed as the car arrived in the back lot at JTF-12's inconspicuous office. "Not even bothering to wipe his cell phone. What an idiot."

"True. Still, give yourself some credit, you did good work," Clyde commented.

"I realize you're both probably tired, but I want everyone here for an immediate briefing on Sean's case," Clyde continued as the trio of agents entered the office. "We'll all still be working on consults and other cases, but this one is going to be our top priority."

"Why is Sean briefing the case?" Tsia asked curiously. Emily had the same question. Clyde always handled all of the briefings, even if another member of the task force first brought the case to his attention.

"Sean and Interpol have a much better grasp on the case," Clyde answered quickly. Emily couldn't be certain from where she was standing, but she was fairly sure Clyde hadn't met Tsia's eyes.

"We'll begin the briefing in a few moments," Clyde continued. "Tsia, go ahead and have a seat in the conference room. Jeremy and Sean should already be in there. Emily, a word in my office please."

Emily was taken aback. She'd no idea what Clyde could possibly want from her. She made brief eye contact with Tsia, who gave a barely perceptible shrug, then reluctantly but dutifully followed Clyde into his dark office.

"Shut the door and have a seat," Clyde said. Emily obliged. She wasn't quite able to read his tone.

"You lied to me," Clyde said, point-blank. The slightest edge of anger and disappointment in his voice.

"What?" Emily demanded, not bothering to mask her exasperation. She was absolutely certain she'd never told Clyde a lie.

"Captain Laurent and I spoke about more than just your profile," Clyde explained. "He said that when you first arrived at the scene of the raid, Tsia froze in the line of fire and you damn near got yourself killed pulling her to safety. You told me everything was fine."

"That is not true," Emily said firmly. "I told you she's still making adjustments."

"Fine, you didn't lie. You just withheld information," Clyde allowed tersely, making it clear he saw it as a distinction without a difference. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to make of all of this. On the one hand, you displayed excellent courage and quick thinking, and on the other hand I don't know that I can trust you to be completely honest with me."

"I wasn't trying to deceive you or anything Clyde," Emily protested. "It's just…Tsia's a good agent. She's smart. Raw, yes. But smart. I didn't think she should be off the task force just because she freaked out her very first time. She can be an asset."

"Prentiss," Clyde sighed. "They day might very well come when you are asked to lead your own team, and you can make those decisions. But right now, that is my responsibility. My decision. And mine alone."

Emily didn't protest.

"Now, as it happens, I agree with you this time," Clyde said, easing into a gentler manner. "But the quality of my assessments and decisions depends on getting information I can depend on. I need to be able to depend on you to tell me the truth. The whole truth. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"I have to be able to trust you. I won't ever ask you to divulge something you can't. I'm not going to ask you to reveal American secrets or break your vows to the CIA. But when it comes to this team, to our operations, I must demand complete honesty."

"Understood, sir."

"Oh for Christ's sake Emily, don't give me that 'sir' shit. This isn't grammar school. And again, excellent work. Truly. Let's get this briefing underway shall we."

Emily followed Clyde into the conference room. She knew she should be used to it after several months, but she was still somewhat baffled by the team leader's tendency to shift from intensely serious to almost chummy at the drop of a hat. She supposed it was just the British manner.

The other three JTF members were waiting on them. Sean was fiddling with hooking up his laptop to the large telescreen, rubbing his dark beard furiously. Tsia and Jeremy sat beside one another at rounded table, talking almost imperceptibly in French.

"Alright, sorry for the delay," Clyde announced as Emily took a seat next to Jeremy. "As I've indicated, Sean has a case from Interpol that we will be pursuing as a unit. It will be our top priority going forward. Exact roles will be determined as we go forward. For now, I'll turn it over to Sean."

"Right," Sean said, in his thick Scottish accent. "As Clyde said, Interpol's picked up this case but we've hit a bit of a dead end. The head of the terrorism division gave me permission to bring the case to this team, and Clyde agreed we all may be of some use."

"What exactly is this case?" Jeremy asked, with a hit of impatience.

"For some time now, Interpol's been tracking an individual operating primarily out of the UK and Ireland who we believe has a hand in terrorist activity in several different countries. We've been unable to positively identify this person, so he's been given the code name Valhalla for the time being. What we do know is that he is extremely well connected and a long time ranking member of the Provisional IRA."

"You're joking, right?" Jeremy suggested, looking thoroughly nonplussed. "The IRA?"

"You think that's funny, do you?" Clyde interjected. Emily thought she'd seen Clyde a bit upset earlier, but this was nothing compared to how he looked now. He was seething. "It's a joke to you? "

"Clyde, calm down," Sean warned, but he, too, was staring daggers at Jeremy. Emily understood the Brits' reaction, but she also thought Jeremy probably had a fair point, if poorly expressed. The whole point of JTF-12 was to help provide a more rapid and targeted response to active threats. She couldn't speak for the British SIS or even for Interpol, but she was certain the Americans, Germans, and French hadn't loaned out their agents to go hunting down old Irish Republican Army vets.

"I don't think anybody's making light of the IRA," Emily tried to explain, calmly. "It's just…they're not exactly a big active threat. The Provisionals have been under ceasefire since '97."

"It's not the IRA we're after," Sean explained. "Just Valhalla and a few conspirators. Apparently after the peace accords, he went freelance and started treating terrorism as a for-profit personal business. He's using the connections he built up to facilitate the sale of arms to various active terrorist organizations throughout the globe. He was most active in dealing with Chechen terrorists in the late 90s. More recently he seems to have made connections with some lose Al Qaeda affiliates, particularly in Afghanistan. We've tracked smuggled shipments of small arms and even a few RPGs."

"Is that a big enough active threat for you?" Clyde asked coldly, his eyes boring in to Emily. Emily had the distinct impression that he somehow knew exactly how she had gotten hurt the previous year and was thinking precisely what Emily was thinking at the moment—there was a chance, however remote, that this Valhalla character had sold the weapon that shot down her helicopter. Still, Emily chose not to directly respond. Clyde's anger was out of character. Something was going on, and she didn't want to directly engage him until she found out.

"So, if you don't know who this guy is, how exactly are we supposed to profile him?" Emily asked, directing her question to Sean.

"Through his associates," Sean answered, clicking a key on his laptop. A picture displayed on the large screen. A profile shot of a man with a gray buzz cut and stubble. Emily placed him in his mid forties, possibly early fifties. At first glance, he just looked like an ordinary rough, grizzled fighter. The kind of person you wouldn't want to engage at a bar. But his blue eyes revealed that there was more to him than that. They betrayed cunning, intelligence, even a hint of charm.

"Ian Doyle," Sean said. "Known Provisional IRA member. A long history of fighting and assaults in the Belfast area. He was arrested in 1993 on suspicion of playing a roll in the bombing at Harrods in London, but nobody was ever able to affirmatively connect him to it. They had to let him go. He was picked up other times on suspicion of involvement in other attacks around Belfast, but nothing could stick." Emily swore she caught Sean shoot the briefest of glances at Clyde, but if Clyde saw it, he gave no indication.

"Not long after the Provos agreed to the ceasefire, we started noticing that Doyle's material circumstances were changing. SIS was still keeping tabs on him. Every year, he moved to a nicer home, started traveling more. Now he owns several properties throughout Europe. When Interpol started picking up rumors about an ex-IRA man dealing in other terrorist circles, we cross-referenced with known facts about old IRA suspects still being tracked by the British government. Doyle's known to have traveled to some of the locations where Valhalla struck deals."

"Okay, is it just me, or does anybody else think that this Doyle person _is_ Valhalla?" Tsia asked.

"That's what we suspected," Sean agreed. "And it's still a possibility, but we're not able to make a definitive connection. None of our informants or interrogations subjects has actually _seen_ Valhalla, though some of them have dealt with Doyle. It's possible they're one in the same, but we also suspect that Doyle may just be a high level intermediary. There's no way to be sure."

"So why not just grab this Doyle and see if he rolls on Valhalla?" Jeremy asked.

"That's the eventual plan," Sean said. "But before we make a move on him, we need to be sure we can make him roll. Otherwise all we accomplish by arresting Doyle is tipping off Valhalla to the fact that we're tracking him. He'll change his patterns, his contacts, we lose every lead. And right now we can't be sure of rolling Doyle at all. Other than the general sketch, we don't know anything about him."

"So that's where the profiling comes in," Tsia caught on.

"Exactly."

"This case is relatively new to me, so Sean and I will be meeting to draw up specific battle plants," Clyde said. "In the meantime, you three see what you can initially make of the information we have so far." He passed each agent a moderately thick file. It appeared to be everything Interpol had collected on Ian Doyle. "I expect some initial impressions by the end of the day tomorrow."

Clyde strode out of the conference room and back to his office with Sean in tow. As soon as they were out of hearing range, Jeremy let out a low whistle.

"Well that was strange," he remarked. "I swear to God, if they are wasting our time on some vigilante quest to avenge the Troubles…"

"You heard Sean," Tsia said. "This guy is selling weapons all over the place."

"Yeah, if we take their word for it," Jeremy scoffed. "You saw Clyde, he's hell bent on this. And if he's so sure of the intelligence, why is Sean presenting the case? Clyde _always_ presents the group cases, even if we're the ones who bring them in."

"What do you think, Emily?" Tsia asked.

"I don't know. Something's definitely weird," she said, pulling her cellphone out of her pocket and dialing the number she'd committed to memory. She got an answer halfway through the second ring. 

"This is Shirer. Is everything alright Agent Prentiss? Are you in trouble?" came the urgent but still measured voice on the other end.

"I'm not in trouble, but I'm not quite sure everything is alright. I somebody to dig into _everything_ we have on Clyde Easter."


	11. Doppelgangers

_Hey all. So, I'm back after a long and very much unplanned hiatus. Computer troubles had me down for awhile. But now I am back with a vengeance and am going to try my best to start whipping out some more chapters quickly. So, if you had been following the story and wondered what the hell happened (a few of you messaged me): I'm sorry. I'm back. I'm going to try and make it worth your wait. Picking up right where we left off with the last chapter. I hope you enjoy. Any feedback/critique is always welcome and appreciated._

"I don't understand," Shirer said, clearly baffled. "I gave you what we had on Easter. You were supposed to memorize the document and destroy…"

"I did," Emily assured him. "But I'm assuming what you gave me was a summary. I need more. Specifically I need to know about any involvement he had in Northern Ireland."

"Northern Ireland? What the hell?"

"Clyde and Sean McCallister want the JTF to essentially drop everything to chase down an ex-IRA captain."

"You have to be joking," Shirer insisted. Emily wasn't at all surprised to hear his displeasure. She knew the CIA would consider this operation a huge waste of resources unless there was something more to it.

"I'm not. Clyde and Sean both insist this guy is now in the illegal arms sales and in bed with everyone form Al-Qaeda to Chechnya."

"But you don't believe them?" Shirer pressed.

"I don't know," Emily conceded. "They're insistent, but they haven't shown us any of the intelligence yet. I do know that something's wrong with Clyde. He's personally invested in this case. He won't hear any dissent. It's not like him."

"What are you thinking?"

"Best guess? Either he was stationed up there and saw something that stuck with him, or he lost family to the IRA."

"I'll see what we can find."

"Thanks," Emily said. "I know I can't overrule him on taking this case, and for all I know it's legitimate, but I just want the full picture of what we're dealing with."

"Completely understandable. And we might not be able to overrule him, but the Agency can absolutely pull you from the task force if we think you're being used or risked for no good reason."

"I don't think it's to that point yet, but I appreciate whatever you can find."

"Definitely," Shirer agreed. "I'll be in touch as soon as I have something for you. Don't hesitate to contact me if you need anything else."

"I won't. Thanks Shirer."

As Emily ended the call, Jeremy and Tsia looked at her expectantly.

"Well? Do your people have anything?" Jeremy asked.

"They're looking," Emily answered.

"In the meantime should we actually take a look at these," Tsia said, holding up her file. Emily and Jeremy reluctantly agreed. Emily was feeling none too enthused about the case, and the contents of the file did little to assuage her. Almost everything in the file was hearsay from unidentified confidential sources in the field. The Northern Irish police had kept some halfway decent notes about Doyle's alleged IRA activity, but there wasn't much in the way of a smoking gun. The evidence of his post-IRA career was lacking even more. There were heavily redacted testimonials stating that Ian Doyle had been involved in weapons transactions on behalf of "Valhalla" in Afghanistan, Chechnya, Iraq, Libya, and, interestingly North Korea, apparently selling weapons to a fledgling dissident group challenging the dictatorship there.

"Busy guy," Emily mused.

If, in fact, any of it was actually true. Emily thought it probably was, but there was little hard evidence to back up the cryptic informant statements, other than a couple of grainy photos taken in Iraq of somebody who _might_ be Doyle and the fact Doyle had a lot of unexplained income apparently dispersed in various off-shore accounts throughout the Caribbean. All things considered, it was maybe enough to arrest Doyle for tax evasion, perhaps providing material support to terrorism. But Emily wasn't sure there was even enough in the file for a conviction, unless the confidential informants planned on testifying, which she very seriously doubted. There certainly wasn't enough to flip a guy like Doyle in interrogation, not if he was as tough and committed as Clyde and Sean seemed to think.

"This is shit," Jeremy remarked, flinging his file down on the table. Apparently he'd finished reading just after Emily. Tsia was still making her way through the last few pages.

"Not much to go on," Emily agreed.

"So what are we supposed to do now?" Tsia asked, flipping her copy shut.

"It's late," Emily remarked, glancing at her watch. As useless as the file was, reading it had still dragged into the early evening hours. "I vote we go home, come back and go through the details with a fine tooth comb tomorrow. I don't think those two are coming out any time soon anyway," Emil nodded towards Clyde's office. Sean and Clyde had now been in there for hours without so much as coming out for a coffee or a restroom break.

"Don't need to tell me twice," Jeremy remarked. "I'll give you two a lift since Clyde brought you directly from the airport."

Normally, Emily would insist on taking a cab or riding the metro home, rather than serve as the awkward third wheel to Jeremy and Tsia, but she was too tired to protest. Thankfully, the two showed restraint, merely chatting casually and making sure to include Emily. Whether this was out of politeness or because Jeremy and Tsia were naïve enough to think the rest of the team hadn't caught on to their budding romance, Emily neither knew nor particularly cared. Though she couldn't help but note that Jeremy dropped her off first, even though she knew for a fact that Tsia was living closer to the office.

Thanking Jeremy for the ride and waiving off his offer to carry her things, Emily dragged her messenger bag and overnight luggage through the front door of the townhouse and dropped them immediately in the entry way. She'd deal with unpacking in the morning. In the kitchen, she pulled the cork from a half-finished bottle of Merlot and poured a generous portion, intending to kill a few hours in front of the TV before settling in for an early bedtime. Her body had other ideas. Less than five minutes after she settled onto the couch, she began to doze off.

An high-pitched ring startled her out of her half-sleep. Jumping at the noise, she knocked the wine glass from the table and it shattered on the living room floor, sending a pool of purple red liquid flooding in all directions.

"Dammit," she swore. At least the floor was wood.

Momentarily ignoring the spreading mess, she grappled for the phone that had caused the whole calamity.

"Prentiss," she answered, not quite successfully concealing her grumpiness.

"It's Shirer," came the polished voice on the other end. "You alright Agent Prentiss?"

"Yes, sorry," she said, collecting herself. "Just dozed off. It's been a long couple of day." She omitted the tidbit about shattering a glass of alcohol on the floor of an Agency-owned house. An Assistant Station Chief didn't particularly need to know that information.

"I've had some of our people go through everything we have on Easter."

"And?"

"I'm afraid I don't have anything for you. We have pretty good inside intelligence on Easter's past exploits. He never served in Northern Ireland. We can't even tell that he's ever _been_ there."

"What about family?"

"Nothing there. Father was a barrister, mother a school teacher. Both still alive. He's an only child. Grandparents died in old age of natural causes. Aunts, uncles, and cousins all still alive and well."

"He was just acting so weird," Emily sighed. She'd been so sure that the case was personal for Clyde, that _something_ had him so fixed on Doyle and Valhalla. Maybe he just really had that much of a hangup about the IRA. Or maybe Emily had just flat misread the situation.

"I'm sorry I wasted your time."

"Never apologize to me for trusting your instincts," Shirer said. "It's not a problem at all. Are you sure you're still good with this assignment."

"Yes, yes. Definitely."

"Alright. You know how to reach me if you need me. And again, please don't hesitate."

"Thanks Shirer."

"Get some sleep, Agent Prentiss."

Emily didn't need telling twice. She took just enough time to haphazardly mop up the Merlot and clear the floor of glass shards before heading for a much-needed full night of sleep.

…

A night of sleeping in her own bed, or at least what was currently passing as her own bed, had the desired effect. Emily awoke the next morning feeling more refreshed than she had in days, at least until her bare foot met the sticky morass of spilled wine she'd apparently failed to clean up all that well.

"Nice going, Emily" she lightly reprimanding her past self.

After doing a much more thorough job of cleaning the previous night's mess, she put on a pot of coffee and clicked on the small TV set on her kitchen counter. Wrapping her fleece house coat more tightly around her shoulders to fend off the morning chill creeping through the poorly insulated windows, Emily passively took in the first few stories on the BBC world news, barely absorbing the anchors' dry recitations about European Union meetings and upcoming elections. Her ears perked when the broadcast transitioned to updates on the Iraq War. Emily had a few CIA friends deployed with the coalition forces, and anxiously followed the events there daily. Today in particular, what she saw made her blood turn cold.

"More information coming in this morning about the suicide bombing that rocked a police recruiting drive near Baghdad," the anchorwoman said seriously, putting on a sufficiently grave mask to deliver the news. "The BBC can now confirm that the bombing killed 12, including nine Iraqi civilians and three American soldiers. Coalition authorities have now identified the perpetrator as a resident of Europe. This man, Youssef Faris, a French national…."

Emily didn't even bother to hear the end of the sentence. As soon as the man's picture appeared on the screen, she made a mad dash up the stairs to her bedroom, changed into the first suitable set of work clothes she could find, and made a mad dash out the door. It was a small miracle she wasn't pulled over as she sped through the streets of Brussels toward the office.

Pulling up to the first open parking spot she could find, Emily half-ran down the sidewalk towards the building. For the first time, she noticed she hadn't even managed to put her shirt on properly – the mis-buttoned blouse hung awkwardly from her shoulders. Normally particular about appearing professional, Emily really didn't care that she looked like crap. Nobody on the street was paying much attention anyway – she blended in nicely with some of the disheveled academics from the university further down the street. The JTF team, on the other hand, noticed something was wrong the moment Emily walked into the office.

"Emily, what's wrong?" Tsia asked, immediately upon seeing Emily streak into the door and begin shuffling hurriedly through one of the two stacks of filed piled on her desk.

Emily ignored her. She could explain in a minute. Right now, she had to know. About a third of the way through the pile, she found what she was looking for: a thin manila file marked "Youssef Faris – France – Prefecture de police de Paris."

Ripping open the file to the first page, Emily saw the picture from the news staring back at her. Taunting her. Just below, the damning note in her own handwriting: "Threat level negligible. Cessation of surveillance recommended. –EP"

"Goddammit!" Emily yelled, flinging the file to the floor in disgust. She could feel the read heat of rage and frustration rising to her face.

"What in the bloody hell is going on?" Clyde demanded, rushing out form his office.

Emily couldn't answer. Staring stonefaced at the floor, she was unable to speak. Incapacitated by a level of guilt and self-loathing she hadn't felt since she was a confused, unhappy teenager half a lifetime ago.

"Emily," Clyde demanded again, but less brusquely, "what's going on?"

"That….that…bastard," she finally managed, "killed 12 people in Baghdad yesterday. And I let him."

Clyde picked the file up off the floor and examined it, frowning.

"This is the police recruitment drive bomber?" Clyde asked.

"You knew?" Emily demanded.

"I heard about the bombing on the news, but didn't think anything of it. Honestly I probably would have never noticed that the file was here."

"I had it open on my desk four days ago," Emily rued. "I could have stopped it."

"Emily, there are, what, maybe 20 documents in there?" Jeremy observed helpfully, nodding to the file in Clyde's hand. "You could not have possibly deduced anything from that."

"There _had_ to be something," Emily muttered, half to herself and half to Jeremy. She tried to recall the details of the file from memory, but she was drawing a blank. She reached to retrieve the file from Clyde, who pulled it away from her grasp.

"We can discuss this in my office," Clyde said.

"I don't want to discuss it, I want to see the file."

"Well, that's not going to happen. I would, however, like to talk to you in my office. If I need to make that an order, then it's an order. Office. Now please."

Emily was thoroughly nonplussed, but it didn't look like she had much of a choice. Biting her lip hard to stop herself from saying something she might regret, she followed Clyde into his office.

"Sit," Clyde gestured, shutting the door behind them.

"I'd rather sta…"

"Sit." He insisted. It wasn't an invitation. She relented and settled into the plush leather opposite Clyde's desk.

"Can I see the file?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't even need to look at it to know that Jeremy was probably right," Clyde answered. "It's almost certain couldn't have predicted anything based on a file this thin."

"You don't know that."

"Let's say for the sake of argument that you're right," Clyde said, humoring her in spite of his clearly thinning patience. "There's something in that file that telegraphs this guy being a terrorist. Even an imminent threat. Then what? You got this file four or five days ago. Best case scenario, you call French police right away. He's still already in Iraq at that point."

"Again, you don't know that," Emily said, frustrated by Clyde's certainty. "There's a chance."

Clyde sighed resignedly. "I was afraid of this."

"What?" Emily asked, taken aback.

"I was afraid this might happen," Clyde explained. "When I was asked to help assemble the right people for this task force – and it is a very good team – I had reservations about each and every one of you. Tsia was inexperienced in the field. Jeremy can be obsessed with status. Sean is infamous in the British intelligence community for his drinking. Do you know what my biggest reservation was about you?"

"Tell me." Emily knew she was about to get her answer no matter what she said.

"Over six years in foreign intelligence work, and as far as I can tell, you've never failed."

"I don't follow," Emily protested. "I've seen things go wrong. I've seen people die," she said, conjuring some unpleasant old memories of South America she'd all but suppressed.

"I'm not saying you haven't seen unpleasantries," Clyde clarified. "I'm saying you haven't had everything go to shit and it be your fault."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"In all of my years in this line of work, I've found you need one ability more than any other. More than intelligence, more than bravery – you have to be able to live with a little bit of blood on your hands. Because in this line of work, the odds are stacked against us. Terrorists, war criminals – they only have to succeed once. Unless we're right 100% of the time, people die. And we'll never be right 100% of the time, but you have to stick your chin up and go back to work or even more people will die."

"So you're saying I have to forgive myself."

"I didn't say anything about forgiveness, darling. That doesn't interest me. I just need to know you can live with it and move on. Because Youssef Faris is in a thousand pieces now, but Ian Doyle is still out there, and I can't tolerate a distracted agent getting in the way of bringing him down."

At the mere mention of Doyle's name Emily saw the flicker of a manic glint back in Clyde's steely gaze. Emily felt her suspicions of the previous day reignited. There was _something_ about this case for him. Her curiosity about Clyde and Doyle was almost starting to match the intensity of her guilt over the morning's news.

"Go home. Take the day to think about things," Clyde insisted. "But when you're ready to put this behind you and come back, I need your full attention on the Valhalla case."

"I can do it now," Emily insisted.

"You can't even put your shirt on right," he remarked, absentmindedly picking a piece of lint off of his own black polo.

"I was just in a hurry," she said acidly. "And I'm not fixing it in front of you."

"Fair enough," Clyde said. "I'm going to go see if Sean has decided to drag his drunk arse in yet, and if he's here the rest of us are going to start conferencing on Doyle. Take a few minutes to get yourself together and join us if you're ready. But I'm telling you right now, if I notice your full attention not on this case, I'm sending you home."

"Fine, I'll be there."

After Clyde left, Emily re-buttoned her shirt properly and pushed the messy curtains of her black hair behind her ears and out of her face. She paused for a moment to gather her thoughts. Clyde might be a blunt instrument at times, but he wasn't wrong. Awful as she felt, she was just going to have to move on from it. At least while she was on the clock. She'd do it the same way she got over every other thing that made her miserable – put it in a box in her head and do her best to forget it.

About five minutes after Clyde had left her alone in his office, Emily emerged, slightly more put together, and joined the others in the conference room. Sean must have come in at some point, because she distinctly heard the Scotsman's voice in the din as she entered.

"Joining us?" Clyde asked.

"Yep," Emily said, defiantly, taking a seat next to Tsia. "What'd I miss?"

"Your esteemed colleagues all seem to be of the opinion that there isn't enough information available to build an effective profile of Ian Doyle," Clyde said, clearly disappointed, though he didn't seem entirely surprised. Emily surmised that he'd probably already tried to build a profile himself before turning it over to her and the others, hoping for better insight.

"Which leaves us with one option – infiltration," Sean observed wisely. "Which is never easy even in theory, and will be even harder in practice in this case. Doyle keeps a tight circle of confidants. Occasionally employs mercenary types or makes brief alliances, but everybody even remotely close to the center of his operations is an old IRA vet going back at least 20 years with Doyle. We aren't going to get close that route."

"What about family?"

"Brother in prison for drug running. Appears not to have had a relationship with Doyle in years. Elderly mother, who he provides for, but from afar. Father dead. Nobody we can get close to who would know anything."

"I take it no spouse or children?" Jeremy asked, frowning thoughtfully.

"No," Clyde confirmed.

"That itself might be something we can use to our advantage," Tsia observed.

"What do you mean?" Clyde pressed.

"He's a man, at the bare minimum he has urges. May even want to love somebody. What if we found a female undercover operative and went at him that way?"

"It might be worth exploring, though I don't know if I like our chances of getting someone in a close enough relationship with him," Sean said. "Interpol has done some reconnaissance on his personal life, and let's just say he doesn't seem the commitment type. There are several that we know of. I think we may have pictures of known former partners on here, let me see." Sean added, fidgeting with the laptop connected to the conference room's projector screen. After a few clicks, pictures of at least 20 different women filled the screen. At least at first glance, to Emily it felt like looking into 20 small mirrors.

Jeremy let out a low whistle. "Busy man" he remarked, sounding almost impressed despite himself. Emily could feel Tsia lodging a kick at him under the table.

"He certainly has a type," Clyde observed.

"Yeah," Emily said, feeling she might as well acknowledge the elephant in the room. "They all look like me."

 _That's where we'll leave it off for now. Things are starting to get going! Stay tuned, if you're so inclined!_


End file.
